


Misc 006: Moirai

by Rhion



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Male Slash, Porn with Feelings, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 87,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8126936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: Vincent's been waiting for German to find the right ladder to climb so he could reach for the stars. In the meantime, the longer German's search takes, the higher the retainer and finder's fee that would be in addition to a future income when he got a new identity. Being a janitor only pays so much, and any gainful part-time jobs only helped so much. Fixers are the gatekeepers of the underworld, and so Vincent asks if there's anything not too onerous that would turn up a bit of extra for him to sock away for a rainy day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oops.

There is no gene for fate, but fate, in of itself, doesn’t necessarily exist. Didn’t mean that sometimes it felt like it. In the time of the conceptions of Vincent Freeman, Irene Cassini, and Jerome Eugene Morrow, geneticist obstetricians had been delivering ideal babies for three decades. The first waves, the very first births were to volunteers or those desperate to not pass along degenerative diseases, or high risks for awful illnesses. Quickly following them, were the rich, and right after the rich, came the educated or the upper middle class scrimping and saving to ensure that the one, and only child they intended to have, was as healthy and perfect as possible, thus passing on the precious data of their lines of DNA that spanned all the way back to the formation of the hominid branch of mammals. With more advancements in technology and technique, the costs for having a baby that was touted as being the best of both parents, plummeted so much so, that even the fast food worker could - with a bit of scrimping and saving and careful planning - afford such a child. All of these people wanted the best for their children, the best possible outcomes for their future and their grandchildren, on into the vast reaches of the true dawning of the space age that was growing during what had become the genetics age. In the time when those three were born, there were still those holdouts that wanted to leave things to chance, in the schools, those public bastions of education meant to educate and form the future generations, there were still one in three children born without any edits to their genes.

...By the time Vincent was fifteen, faith births were all accidents not caught soon enough to abort, born to religious fanatics, or far out and away from proper civilization and cultural advancement. (There were a few first world countries that were slower to implement the procedure en masse, or to enforce rules, regulations, and status of Valids vs (in)Valids, tying high quality of life and myriad rights to being gene sequencing. And of course, there were some countries that were too poor or too far behind technologically to offer facilities and the like to their populace.) Vincent was a dying breed. Not the last of his kind by any means, there were those older than him, in higher proportions even, but it meant that the world had ever decreasing room for his kind. Everything was meant to cater to the dominant population, the Valids. They had practically become another race of hominid - homo sapien validus or something else foolish and clunky. Faith births, (in)Valids, they had decreasing, more and more humiliating options in this world...when they had options at all.

Of course the result of all that pressure combined with Vincent’s dreams, his needs, the things that drove him and kept him alive every moment of the day. Forcefully contained pressure allowed no relief always had one, and only one, potential outcome - explosion. Contrary to what entertainment videos, books, and common belief asserted about explosions being large, noticeable, and supremely destructive, not all such reactions were any of those things, or were only one or two of those. Vincent’s drove him to do what many (in)Valids did to one degree or another when refusing to be trapped in menial, humiliating livelihoods where they were used by the genetic elite to do those things that Valids wouldn’t sully themselves with, or perhaps to sell themselves in some fashion or another - Vincent decided to climb a ladder. Ladder climbing was the use of a Valid’s genetic code and identity to pave their way to a better life. Generally that was something like a teacher, a mechanic, or some other skilled career, something requiring scrutiny but nothing daily and deep.There was risk in those, risk of discovery, loss of respect, jail time...but it was the level of risk akin to driving too fast on the freeway, a bit of a crapshoot but something not so dangerous as to be unheard of, and not considered. It was like a strong swimmer scuba diving after lots of practice, a good instructor, all the works - precautions taken, risk mitigated and considered within acceptable parameters. 

Vincent didn’t want to be a teacher. A policeman. A judge, a lawyer, a sous chef, a mechanic, an analyst or anything of those fine, necessary, upstanding citizen lives. He wanted, no, needed, the stars. He was fixated on one of Saturn’s moons, Titan, but truthfully that was only because of an educational blurb video when he was a child, where several astronomers and physicists were arguing about whether or not other planets within the solar system could support life without vest effort expended terrafarming them. Titan was mentioned repeatedly, along with the fact that none of the scopes, scans, and the unmanned satellites that went by by that point in time had been able to pierce the cloud shrouding the moon. That was all it took for him to choose that as the specific destination his dreams wanted to reach - a five minute argument. When he was older, looking up what the word ‘titan’ meant, that had added further weight to his desire - a titan, a god, a huge, primordial being, something far beyond his scrawny, weak bodied person could ever be confused for. 

To infiltrate that sort of life, a life where the stars wouldn’t be denied to him, required a whole other level of risk. There were about a dozen space flight corporations that had replaced government institutions over the years spread out around the world with two within Vincent’s birth state. As it turned out government agencies would never be granted the level of funding they would need to properly colonize and explore the stars, and that wouldn’t do, not with a planet that would have resources that ran out eventually. And private corporations were held to different standards, different laws even, that allowed them to be choosey, rigorous above and beyond public institutions. Even getting a job with an (in)Valid cleaning crew at those space corps required labyrinthine security and background checks, while being almost constantly monitored, whereas getting a real job, a respectable job, and most importantly, a position and rank that allowed for space travel in any format, was obliged to come with even more stringent protocols. Protocols meant to ensure only the finest Valid for the position was selected, true - but also to prevent an (in)Valid from gaining admittance to such heights. (Vincent’s observation about those rules and regulations, made him realize that keeping out (in)Valids was actually an afterthought, as no one would ever consider that an (in)Valid would have the gall or be so brazenly stupid to make that kind of attempt.)

The fixer, German, wasn’t the sort of man who advertised in the classifieds or on any kind of public forum or message board. It was word of mouth, and very select word of mouth, that could get a body in contact with a quality fixer. And German was considered one of the most discreet and thorough, of fixers, handling and interacting with the higher risk aspects of ladder climbing. He wasn’t the best, so Vincent supposed, so he had heard, but he wasn’t the worst, or even mediocre. Plus, he was what was available that didn’t make Vincent’s hackles rise. 

For years, leading up to finally giving in and seeking outside assistance, Vincent had pushed his body to its breaking limit. He took that scrawny, boney, pale lump of flesh that society called weak, that his brother treated like trash, that Mom handled like fragile spun glass ready to shatter at the least bit of pressure, or that so embarrassed Dad - he took what nature had given him, and Vincent moulded it to suit _his_ will. Not the will of a geneticist, not the will of society. His will. There were plenty of things he couldn’t make his body do with simple effort and dedication, couldn’t make himself taller, couldn’t make his vision clear - and those, he worked with with the means available to him, be they glasses or dressing so nobody took note of his height. Allergies were easily dealt with, too - there were suppliers in old fashioned medicines that counteracted all that. As for the ADHD...Vincent found it useful at times to let that run rampant, while others, he treated the same way he did with his seasonal reaction to dogwoods, birch, or poplars blooming - with a couple of pills and some patience. Beyond all that, though? He could run, he could swim, he could lift, and he didn’t look too awful naked, though it was hard not to see skin and bones and fishbelly pallid skin looking back at him whenever he examined himself in the mirror. 

He was strong, healthy, physically, or as much as he could make himself without access to the vastly more advanced treatments open to Valids. He was educated, as educated as endless hours spent reading, researching, studying, practicing, challenging himself to learn more, understand more, be capable of more, would allow. He had degrees, ones that were actually pertinent to his dream. Alright, they were from small colleges, ones that needed students badly enough to not be too picky about who they accepted so long as they could pay for their classes on time, showed up, or handed in their work online, by drop off, or whatever method required to count attendance and display various proficiencies, be they local or long distance. Still, it was a very advanced education, and far, far more than anything his family would have thought him capable of achieving.

Mentally and physically, he was at his highest possible peak, and that would still never be good enough to count him as valid to society. Not the trio of masters degrees, not the doctorate, and if those weren’t counted, then obviously his lowly bachelor's wasn’t even worth mentioning. Vincent did what he had to though, and worked his ass off, his fingers off, being a janitor, being a line cook, being a dishwasher, or the lowest rank mechanic at an autoshop. Probably one of the only multiple higher degree carrying (in)Valids under the age of sixty to exist working in those kinds of careers. It didn’t matter, none of that did, just saving money, biding his time, learning, observing, challenging and pushing himself, until he could fully meet German’s asking price while planning for a hefty sized nest egg after that chunk was taken out. Of course, being able to meet that asking price would be only another step, another level, another obstacle to overcome, to reach his dreams. He had to wait until German also found a suitable ladder willing to sell themselves. Not just any old ladder with a vaguely similar appearance would do. It had to be someone so genetically perfect that they could gain employment at one of those ever so restricted corporations. 

...All those things were assets and problems, most of them were being worked on, and he was doing what could be done for the time being. The kicker was that German’s search was turning up fuckall, which meant he had to cast a wider net, had to invest more. Difficulty plus demand translated very neatly into higher cost. Which meant that the difficulty in socking away enough funds while still living his (in)Valid life, and setting aside a bit more for a rainy day or to tide him over some as yet unavailable new identity’s gainful employment also increased. The cost of maintaining his physical prowess meant he couldn’t feed himself shit food, either, so that wasn’t a place he could save money for something else. He already lived in the cheapest place he could find that wasn’t a two hour commute from the cleaning agency that would take him wherever for his day job, or more than an hour from his night job as a dishwasher-backup line cook at The Rain Tree.

Having forged something almost like a working acquaintance level friendship with the fixer, Vincent may have bemoaned his financial state. Alright, he actually did bemoan it. He wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t going to let the fixer know that fifteen years of hard work and living frugally beyond scholastic needs, meant he had a decent cushion. Besides, there was no such thing as too much cushion when it came to money a person had to their name. The way Vincent figured it, German might know of a way for a bit of extra cash that Vincent could earn. Nothing violent, he’d made that clear, nothing too dangerous either, and hopefully nothing actually disgusting.   
XXX

German tilted his head a bit side to side in that way along with a barely there shrug, to indicate a vacillating statement of ‘six of one, half dozen of another’, blended perfectly with ‘depends on your definition.’ “There’s always a market for sin, the taboo, you know, the uncommon, or whatever’s not so acceptable in public society these days.” He shook his head, grunting, bemoaning something Vincent was too young to remember, but the fixer was just old enough to have been a young man to experience, “Things were different, Vincent. The world was liberal in its views, accepting of mankind’s foibles and differences of individuality. Sure, Valid births were rapidly becoming the norm, becoming standard, but that didn’t mean anything to anyone really, not yet. It was a much too short period of time. Women’s rights and freedoms were through the roof, having won them not so long before, and they were wild with it, my young friend. Standards of living were rising, science was advancing so fast...everyone was encouraged to be their own special person, peculiarities and all. Lemme put it this way, I dated this girl, she had blue hair, and more ink her skin than you’d find in print newspaper’s Sunday edition. Today, you go to a freakshow to find that, maybe another country, nobody worth anything wants anything to do with that kind of thing.” He snorted, “So now look what we’ve got. A world full of perfectly engineered special snowflakes who all look the same, act the same... I tell you, it’s boring comparatively. Like a short adolescence before being shoved into adulthood responsibilities without any warning or way to relax and live a bit beforehand. I almost envy you not having lived in that kind of world, ‘cause since I grew up in it, became a man in it, and now -” a swarthy hand tugged at the crisp lines of the studiously respectable mustard brown suit, “- being stuck with _this_? I tell you, it’s a curse. Rather never had it than have to give it up.”

Frowning, his voice soft like it always was, like he was going to hesitate or wasn’t certain he should speak up - a lifetime habit ingrained, and he longed to be rid of it, “Let me see if I got this right - what you and the rest of the world took for granted after finally getting it out in the open, found itself shoved back down into the dark? Closing Pandora’s Box and stuffing Disease, Misery, and Mortality back in that easily?” 

“Eloquently put, but yes,” the older man agreed, taking a sip of the cheap instant coffee Vincent had poured for him earlier when the fixer showed up to discuss the search’s progress and the like. “In simpler terms, the same things that existed before they were in the open, may not be in fashion, or discussed with friends unless drunk or whispering in some place quiet, let alone acknowledged by regular folks walking around except in the darkest room of their homes and carefully gossiped about or admitted to - are still alive and well today. Just well hidden.”

“Of course,” unable to keep the sarcasm out replied, eyes rolling, arms crossing on the table, but German smirked at it, amused in that crocodile way that seemed to be the main fiber that made up the fixer. Since the older man wasn’t more forthcoming, waiting Vincent out, he gave German what he seemed to want, a bit of prompting. “Okay, so sin is in. Not really news there. Are you talking pit fights? Kick an (in)Valid in the nuts for five bucks? (in)Valid hobo fights? Some Valid wanting to jump into a match with an (in)Valid they don’t have to worry about hurting or being able to accuse them of assault? What?”

A dark eyebrow shot straight up, and German fixed him with a more intense look. “Quite a specific list there, Vincent, you almost sound like you’ve played those games before.”

 

Vincent shrugged it off. It didn’t matter. That was all a long time ago, and a very hungry, desperate youth had done those stupid things. Stupid, because that sort of shit risked his body to damages that weren’t easily recovered from, and that was to say _nothing_ of what a bad blow - or multiple, repeated bad blows - to his head would do to his mental capacity. Without a functional body to go with a functional brain and vice versa, the stars would be banned from him no matter what steps he took to get there, whose identity and genes he took on if his own abilities weren’t enough.

Tapping a finger to his temple, “I need my grey matter intact, and if I didn’t need it to work well enough to pass as some Valid in prime condition, I wouldn’t care too much about the rest of me, but since I do - if it’s something I’ll heal from quickly enough and well enough to never be noticed or an issue, then maybe I’m interested in what other kinds of things go on where the perfect respectability of others isn’t looking.”

German leaned back, studying him, hummed once thoughtfully. “You put a great deal of restrictions on what you’re willing to do, Vincent.”

“Only enough to keep myself able to climb that perfect ladder you say you’re trying to find me,” snorting incredulously and taking a gulp of his own coffee that he intended to look decisive. He only just managed to keep from spitting the sour stuff back into the mug, it was cold and disgusting, and he’d forgotten to add any sugar to it, leaving it undrinkable. “Bleugh. Man, screw whoever thought roasting some beans, grinding them up, and then boiling them, was a good idea.” Snorting, shaking his head, and forcing himself to down the coffee, muttering, “Yeah-yeah, I say that now, but in the morning, it’s all about Lady Caffeine and how I can’t live another second without her.” Face twisting into a disgusted pucker, he returned to the topic at hand, refusing to be permanently side-tracked, which German may or may not be doing, it was hard to tell as his focus wasn’t as tight as usual since today was a day he had opted to not take his ADHD meds to hopefully keep his tolerance at least slightly manageable. “Alright, what else is there then? There’s got to be stuff other than all that, that maybe I could try my hand at...right?”

The fixer heaved a sigh, “You’re not really much to look at, so working escort service out of a club wouldn’t work. Not ever. Because looks, well, they ain’t everything. But you,” pointing a finger at him, “you got a mouth, an attitude. Doesn’t matter that you’re all quiet most times, you don’t have it in you to sit around, chitchat and look available and interested enough in whatever clients come your way or are sent to you. You’ll open that mouth and say something smart instead of pay attention to the customer to make them feel generous or like taking you to a room for a bit of one on one. Or you’ll mentally check out and look like a fucking vegetable wishing to be anywhere else than listening to Mr. Murdock complain about his second wife and how her tits are too big when he’d rather a nice hairy chest to finish on. Or Miss Bailey, the shy school teacher who wants to feel special for a bit, because the bitch is ugly no matter her Valid status, but ‘tween you and me, it’s the halitosis. You don’t have what it takes up here,” German reached out and lightly smacked the side of Vincent’s head. “And that’s not something you can fake, not even for a couple of nights, you got too much up there, to play nice and chitchat about the weather or the ballgame while you’ve got galaxies dancing around in your skull.”

Annoyed, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know I’m nothing to look at, and you’re right, I can’t stand idiots who don’t have any excuse to be ones. It’s an art I’ve never masted and I sure don’t care about it, German. If I’m talking with someone, it should mean something, it shouldn’t be just a lot of hot air and bullshit that doesn’t say anything, has no impact, no worth. And say I could at least keep my mouth shut and grunt and smile on call with someone like that, say I went off to the side with them privately - I wouldn’t be able to do anything with them, because being a captive audience is one thing, managing to touch them, let alone fucking them, would be impossible! It’s pretty obvious I’m not made like that...I mean, okay, part of me may say I wish I was, but yeah, nope. Not me. Being with someone with the kind of limp personality I’d equate with a sea sponge...” He shuddered, full body, unable to fight it. “No way, no how, feel slimey just thinkin’ about it. But if it was someone who wasn’t all vapid? If they could, you know, talk about interesting things, wanted some company or whatever...eh, well, guess there’s probably no call for that.”

Hell, the last was how he’d managed to ever even get laid. Befriending a coworker, talking, spending a bit of time on each other, not even really brilliant conversation, but it was about life, thoughts, whatever. Time spent, all that...yeah, that was the only way Vincent could manage the physical beyond that very first time, when he lost his virginity. _That_ had been all hormonal desperation and not caring if the other person was an actual person at all - it had been the animal need to simply get off, nothing else mattered. Subsequent times, Vincent had tried, had really, really tried, but either couldn’t go through with it, or some point along the way, would have to bow out, too disgusted with himself to press to a completely empty finish that could have been far more easily achieved with his left hand. He would blame his Catholic upbringing, and would probably be right in doing so, if he was the kind of person who liked to point fingers or lay blame. 

German chuckled, expression warming, “Not at the clubs, the brothels, no. But I do have clients of diverse interests. Don’t ask me to to promise that they’re attractive, young, or even female -”

“Men are fine,” interrupting. “Guys don’t expect you to stay the night and have breakfast in the morning. Just nobody that looks like an alien extra from one of those sci-fi movies or whatever...”

“Well, well, I’m surprised, you’re better travelled than I expected, which,” philosophically, “is a bonus and makes it more likely I can facilitate your desire to earn some cash and their ability to get some company. No aliens, someone who’s more interesting than Mr. Murdock or Miss Bailey, no sea cucumbers. I think I may be able to arrange that, I’ll let you know.”

As German rose from the rickety two person table that took up more of the very limited and valuable space of his tiny apartment than it had any right to, Vincent followed suit so he could see the fixer the five steps that would take him to the door, “Yeah, well, I think I’ve heard that before. Just glad I’m not holding my breath until you deliver, I’d pass out.”

Pausing in the hallway briefly, German turned enough to slap Vincent’s nearest shoulder with great familiarity, “Like I said, you got a mouth on you that just has to come out with something smart. Word of advice? Curb it as much as you can, I know, I know, a monumental effort, but if you wanna get paid... And when I do find you a perfect match, you won’t wanna blow it by being too cocky. _Capisce?_ ”

“Yeah,” falling back on the tried and true act of biting his tongue while sucking his bottom lip, like that would hold the words in.

XXX

Vincent refrained from cursing when he was let go from his part time position at The Rain Tree. There wasn’t anything for it, and beyond a muttered ‘well shit’ followed by multiple mumbles of ‘this sucks’ while taking the six mile hike back to his apartment since the buses in this area of town ran very intermittently and the one that would carry him home wouldn’t be by for more than an hour. Those pedestrians that were out and about, bustled, Valids and (in)Valids intermixing in one of the public manners that was still normal in this day and age. Sometimes the (in)Valids were even able to pass as the Valids upon cursory inspection, becoming almost indistinguishable from one another. It was the clothes though, it was the clothes, the body language, that could give it away easily. No matter how briskly and with purpose an (in)Valid walked, or neat their clothing was, anyone looking closely, would be able to make note of the cut, the quality of cloth as easy enough tells for the most part, but that body language... Valids walked with their heads up, gaze focused straight ahead. Or they walked relaxed, unconcerned, not deigning to notice those around them, whether the bodies packing the sidewalks and crosswalks were Valid or (in)Valid. Valids walked with assurance, with purpose, whether leisurely or in a subtle hurried air of ‘I am on vastly important business, do not distract me’. (In)Valids...there was a hunch to the shoulder, a head down, careworn not able or willing to look up from another day’s slogged trek. Some (in)Valids walked with heads thrown back, shoulders squared, a swagger of bravado, and that was obvious too, as they pretended they were something other than what they were. Valids never, ever questioned their right to be some place, their right to life, and society never questioned them over their value, and that translated into the fabric of their being, their movements, their expressions, their tones of voice... From birth, an (in)Valid’s existence, their very right to breathe, to eat, to live, to work, to sleep, to feel, had to be justified, and it was simply best to keep out of the world’s focus, to be busy and unobtrusive, hoping to not be stopped, berated, and questioned about their worth yet again, their humanity, belittled...

And Vincent was one of those (in)Valids, right that very moment, head down, even as his eyes peered through the sides of his glasses at those around him, moving through the two very different worlds that shared the same space. His dreams would require he cast off that (in)Valid bearing, which was funny - _he_ had never questioned the value of his life, his dreams, his hopes, no matter how the world, society, his family, his peers, his, well, everyone, did their best to doubt his every move, thought, breath... And yet he still had that bearing! Somehow! Of course it did allow him to sort of blend in, to move through the world, to hold employment that would allow him to live, to earn money to carefully spend on furthering his dreams of the world outside of planet Earth. Clenching his jaw on the next ‘this sucks’ that almost slipped free, Vincent realized he must learn another thing, one he hadn’t foreseen. So...perhaps the walk home to the not so great side of town after a similarly long day mopping floors, taking out trash, and scrubbing toilets, wasn’t the worst way to spend his time, or a total loss. It had granted him a vital realization, plus a few miles to watch, pick up, and identify, cataloguing everything he could about the people that swirled and eddied like water in a tide pool.

His mind was on those minutiae that he would have to understand and then emulate at some future date when he entered his apartment, awareness not on his surroundings as they pertained to his immediate state.

That was why when German spoke, he jumped, stumbled back in place a step, and may have made a really dumb sort of sound, before launching forward simply on instinct, hand lashing out at speed to hoist the nearest object he could grab - a book on ancient astronomers, pretty heavy - to launch it in the intruder's direction... All that happened before he could register who was there, uninvited, without a key, into his comfortably pitiful and simple apartment. When he did realize, it was already too late, German was up and had thankfully ducked the book to suddenly be standing in front of him, irritated, and Vincent had already been in the middle of throwing a punch to follow up that thrown text book... Thankfully it neither connected nor was carried through - the punch that is. Vincent wasn’t the strongest of men, but he was strong enough, and he had been in a more than fair share of fights. Not all of which were fights he got into once running away from home. Anton and he may have played chicken by swimming, but his physically superior younger brother, had loved martial arts, and beating up the weaker, older sibling had been a favoured pastime - which translated into Vincent, even when nothing more than thin flesh stretched too tight over knobby twigs was all he had to call a body, having had to learn how to take hits and occasionally even throw a few, just for the sake of simple survival. 

“Ah-hi,” stammering out in the middle of the weirdest tableau, with his fist still hovering close to German’s jaw, and the other man holding a protective stance that also was meant to keep Vincent too crowded to effectively throw any kicks, fists, or fortuitous objects. “I didn’t know you were comin’.”

Dryly and hefty doses of aggravation, perhaps covering anger or surprise, German was an old hand at deciding what cards to show, and Vincent couldn’t read him as clearly as he might others, “I called, but I forgot you don’t have a mobile. Not even a beeper. Thought I’d drop by with some good news as a favour for a loyal client, anyway, and since the guest lounge outfront was too public for such discreet business, I opted to let myself in.” Dark, dark black pit eyes focused on Vincent, pinning him, even as the fixer finally relaxed, “If I’d believed that I’d receive a first hand demonstration of your street skills, I would’ve saved that for another time, and passed the news onto someone else.”

Sheepishly, Vincent shifted away from the door, relaxed - he didn’t really trust German himself, but he did trust German’s desire to make a profit both in short and long term business, “Ah, yeah...part of why the rent’s so cheap, no amenities, just a bit of sidewalk and a curb out front of the main door. But the hobo who sings until you give him a dollar’s a definite draw, adds to the ambiance, plus he does tend to keep away burglars.” Turning on his hotplate, Vincent quickly assembled his percolator for some fresh coffee. Visits from German meant only a little sleep, if any, and he had picked up _some_ manners from Mom, and guests should be offered something to drink out of a clean cup, even if all a body had was some tap water. “Or maybe the burglars stay away because there’s nothin’ to steal from the folks here, huh?”

German moved around behind Vincent, not close, just to the table, he could see that in the blurry reflection of the percolator as he put it on to heat, and there was an unfamiliar rustle from the only other chair in Vincent’s house besides the one German had gotten up out of initially. “Are you still interested in those side ventures, Vincent?” the fixer ignored his chatter. “If so, then I’ve found a fair enough match. It’s for longer than I would suggest someone whose capabilities to meet said request I wasn’t absolutely certain of, but the usual acquaintance is down with a case of walking pneumonia, and is under instructions to rest for the next two weeks at least or it’ll get worse. I warned my client that you were fresh to the scene, but he’s indicated that that’s unimportant.” 

As German spoke, Vincent turned around, hands braced on the countertop behind him where the lone burner hot plate sat, his brows beetling over his wireframe glasses. “You sound like you’re in a spot, if you actually had someone else better you could use, you probably wouldn’t be here, so, yeah, that sounds like a bit of a bind.” It also sounded like German had volunteered Vincent without even a warning. “Guess it’s a good thing it’s Friday, and I don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow, so maybe I can sleep in...” musing while rubbing his ear against his shoulder, fingers drumming nonsense rhythms around the edge of the counter he still was hanging onto. Ignoring the way German’s expression went stony like that would keep anything from showing, Vincent turned back to the coffee pot, taking down two mugs for their use, “Fine, I’ll bite, I’m a fast learner, so lay it on me - what’s the expectations, advice, the ropes or whatever you can think of to cram into what time’s available, and then what sort of pay I’m looking at.”

XXX

The suit fit...sort of. Hem tape was heavily employed on the cuffs of slacks, the coat, and even the damn dress shirt he found himself donning. It was the nicest getup Vincent had ever worn, and he felt like a monkey in a tux. Thankfully it wasn’t a tux, it was just a proper dress suit, complete with a brightly pigmented emerald green vest which was complementary to the deep blue but not navy blue, of that suit, topped off with a black tie. While he showered and shaved and tried to not show awe at the quality of soap German handed him behind the curtain, or the heft and weight of the thumb size vial of aftershave that was applied after scraping off stray bits of hair on his chin and cheeks, the fixer went over general information. Sex wasn’t necessarily expected, conversation, companionship, something akin to passable table manners if a meal was shared, so on, so forth. Lots of admonishments to be careful about rambling on random things, or worse, _blurting out_ things. When German said the last, Vincent had winced, looking in the medicine cabinet's mirror, while the older man was doing something with the happily wayward and spiky hair he tended to sport. There wasn’t much to do about the blurting thing, especially at night, because by then, his meds were almost worn off or had completely worn off, and usually that was hours ago. Grimacing, he dug into the cabinet and pulled out the orange bottle with its precious contents that had to be obtained on the black market since no real pharmacy would stoop to serving an uninsured (in)Valid. 

Those meds weren’t easy to find, at least, not the medical grade kind. Street brewed hard drug versions of it, impure, and strong enough to fuck an elephant up, taken by addicts and recreational users dabbling where they shouldn’t, were too unreliable for Vincent to want to mess with. He’d done it before in a pinch, but there was a difference between slow release amphetamine salts made in sanitary conditions and street meth, mostly the difference was dosing difficulties, bad stomach reactions, and a few others of varying importance. Besides, who wanted to take something that was refined using petrol, ammonia cleaners as strong as any he used as a janitor, and who knew what else?

Popping one, swallowing it dry, “No blurting...no promises on that, German. I’ll try real hard, though.”

The fixer’s expression copied his own, and looked at the limited, but very vital, pharmacopeia in Vincent’s cabinet. “I’ll replace whatever you use, you’ll need it, as this job goes from tonight at ten, to Sunday at five in the afternoon. Here -” hands holding up another coat, another pair of slacks, to compare and thankfully those didn’t need altering, but German pulled out a pack of safety pins to add to whatever it was he was accumulating, “- these should be enough to do in a pinch. Not perfect, but good enough. Bring your meds, but don’t mention them to the client, most of them don’t like the idea of people taking medications for any reason, unless it’s themselves or a loved one. Anything less than the picture of perfect health -”

“Yeah, I get it,” bitterness seeping out. “Human frailty is for the imperfect genetic stock, not the properly engineered. Weakness could be catching, bad genes might rub off on them. It’s alright to use (in)Valids, but if anyone notices a sniffle or a cough drop, it’s the end of the fucking world, send them to a leper colony, and then scrub yourself and any nearby surface with bleach just to be sure it didn’t jump from a subhuman to a real human.”

German froze, then looked at him intently, much of the hard guise of fixer falling away, at least for the moment, and he was a concerned human being, a concerned coworker or acquaintance, maybe even distant relative who didn’t care about Valid genes or not, “Vincent, if you’re not a hundred percent, if you’re not able to do this tonight, then it stops right here.”

Shaking his head, letting it go, “I’m fine, just an old, annoying song that gets stuck in your head, even when you thought you’d forgotten all about it, and it returns to irritate you until it’s knocked loose. I’m good at ignoring it, German, but thanks,” and sincerely, “I do appreciate it.” Making light, “What’s that song on the radio lately that’s on all the time? Do-do, something or other? I’ll just sing that louder than what’s stuck in there.”


	2. Chapter 2

German had informed him that the customer - client, person? - was supposed to be a 9.3 on the scale for genetic perfection and rarity. That information was imparted solely to prevent him from asking, since apparently it was a common enough thing amongst Valids, and (in)Valids who interacted with Valids day to day, to pry about those kinds of things. A ridiculous IQ was listed, a heart described as being stronger than an ox’s (which Vincent forcefully kept himself from envying, no matter that his hand went to his chest and rubbed briefly, wondering just when his would betray him and end all his dreams and efforts just after the fast approaching age of thirty), along with a ton of other dumb details that had to do with Valid social standing and measurements of success. It was just the surface, that was obvious, but it was a crash course meant to keep Vincent from slipping up terribly and losing not just a wealthy, reliable client, but one that would spread word of how disappointed the client was with German’s service, and wind up poisoning the waters of German’s Valid customer base. Just because those kinds of discussions weren’t polite, or open, didn’t mean they didn’t happen - otherwise, how else would anyone be able to build a clientele in a world where everything not completely proper, respectable, perfect, and sanitary had to go into deep hiding?

Vincent wasn’t prepared though. He thought he was, thought he could wing it, he _was_ a fast learner, he was smart, he was determined, he _knew_ not just believed or hoped, that what others called impossible, was perfectly possible for him to attain. No dream was out of reach if he only drove himself to the brink, snatched every opportunity, created opportunity, and, if necessary, delve deeply into the unscrupulous side of humanity to reach those (im)possible dreams. 

His eyes were a sea glass green and they were the sharpest, most intense things Vincent had ever seen. German hadn’t told him the client was attractive, then again, perhaps the fixer, like many, equated genetic purity, quality, as the yardstick for attractiveness, believing that there could be no such thing as a skillfully engineered Valid being ugly. (Maybe that was even true, but Vincent had seen what were likely to be 8s, 9s, and all those ranks below it, and sometimes, perfection was still ugly. Symmetry wasn’t everything. Chiseled features, sculpting faces and bodies until they lost all humanity and became golems made of flesh, bone, sinew, and fluids, nothing human remaining to be drawn to.) 

“Come in, don’t just stand on the step, it looks untidy,” airily but terse, sardonic and impatient, the accent rolled and flowed over vowels and consonants. English, clearly English, but unlike any other Vincent had heard. A broad, masculine hand waved, beckoning, “Gawk all you like once the door’s closed, and I’d rather you do it to my face instead of to my back, every time I turn and see those expressions trying so desperately to contort into something polite, I can’t decide if I want to beat the wearer to a pulp or laugh until I fall over.”

Quickly stepping over the threshold, closing the door, fumbling with the more obvious lock, barely remembering to wipe his feet thoroughly on both the entry rugs - the coarse one outside to remove the worst, and the one right inside to hopefully get anything else - before running a hand over his suit coat, and nervously squeezing the handle of the sturdy, elegant to Vincent, valise the fixer had lent him. As a rule, no matter what he wore, where he was, no matter if he was shabby, or his surroundings of high quality - Vincent didn’t feel lessor. Not ever, not under any circumstance, not since he was the one to rescue his perfect, younger, engineered brother Anton, after a lifetime of being treated by everyone except their mother, like he was unworthy, unwanted, and mangey...but those green eyes, that lean body turning to show him his back, the grace of every hitching step or the rolling of dipped shoulders as he leaned heavily on a pair of canes, Vincent felt like a plastic spork foolishly put in with the heirloom silverware, particularly if that spork was crammed beside the classically ornate serving spoon. A sham, shabby, a joke...

The meds were supposed to be working, that was why he’d taken that one back at his apartment, and why he’d even accepted a valium too, just in the hopes of keeping his racing mind from galloping nonstop, and maybe mask, prevent, or ease any potential jitters the night brought.

Maybe there weren’t enough drugs in the world to keep his mouth shut on what came out with quiet reverence, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

Dark tan slacks under creamy eggshell blue button down shirt with its rolled up to the elbow cuffs, and was held snugly by a crimson and black vest to that svelte torso with its trim but not scrawny waist and the powerful, broad looking shoulders that somehow avoided being grotesquely heavy, froze mid swinging step. Still as a statute for a heartbeat as Vincent continued to forget to be anything but stunned, and the client, Eugene, right, Eugene, that was the name German had told him to use, spun in place, weight heavy on the left walking stick, hand wrapped firmly about the secondary, jutting handle, and Vincent couldn’t stop staring, drinking in every line and angle. “I beg your pardon?” the question asked with blond head tilting - no brunette, both? Bronde? Was that even a word? A colour? It must be, because it perfectly described the lazy, effortless mop of hair gracing that crown, hair that was just the right length to show that if it had been long, it would turn into artful curls, but was still short enough to be both utterly masculine and easy to take care of. Head cocked curiously to the side, studying him Vincent realized as that accented voice firmly broke through his dazed reverie.

“Ah...” Forgetting himself, rubbing the back of his neck, abashed, he tried to sound matter of fact with very little success to his own ears, but hopefully at least some to the other man, “Umn, well, you’re beautiful, except I suppose you know that already, no surprise to you, I guess... Probably hear it all the time, sorry, sometimes my mouth doesn’t remember to check with the brain as well as I’d like.”

The stare was unbroken, and Vincent struggled very hard to not shift in place, not knowing what he was supposed to do in this situation. Should he put the coffee coloured leather valise down beside himself? Should he move, should he try to distract - just what? He was out of his depth.

Finally Eugene spoke in that crystal clear voice of his, “Rarely. And if I anyone does say so, they say well of course I am since I was engineered that way by the finest of science, that it’s in my genes, just like my athletic ability, my intelligence, my everything, it’s all right in my perfectly selected, parent and geneticist approved DNA. So to those individuals, it’s simply my genes that are beautiful, nothing I do, or am, or can be, is, as I’m no more or less than the genetic contributions of my parents, and what benefit to the observer that my status may confer.” It was recited evenly, a hard truth, and one that Vincent found surprisingly cruel, never having considered beyond his own life’s experience with how others only defined him by his bad genes... To think a Valid could be judged and defined only by their good genes... Two sides of a single, awful coin. “Or, upon receiving a rare compliment that doesn’t apply to my genetic makeup, the foresight of my parents, the skill of the geneticist, and all that goes into crafting a superlative fetus - it is followed up with breathtakingly astonishing speed by the fact that it’s such a shame I’ve become crippled, but oh, oh not totally crippled, just _sort of_ crippled, an _invalid_.” Ruefully, lips twisting in a smirk, “Usually they never realize the irony of the fact that they used ‘invalid’ correctly, probably for the first and last times in their lives.” 

“That _sucks_ ,” heartfelt, Vincent shook his head, and finally moved forward, forgetting his uncertainty. “I mean, uh, it’s rude, definitely rude, but mostly it’s mean. It’s cruel, it’s petty and nasty, and life’s difficult enough without throwing that sort of crap on top of it.”

A curious, long blink, a soft, audible inhale, and, “Well then, that’s where we stand I suppose, with the rare genuine compliment between us. And if it’s not, shall we just pretend that it is, it makes things more congenial and suits my tastes better.” The corner of the full mouth quirked briefly, “Generally, I don’t give a damn about compliments, they’re more irritant than anything else, as they’re meant to stroke my ego and earn something for someone, and even if true, they wind up sounding...like foul oil smeared by bootlicks who only want what they can grab, not what they deserve or earn. But, if you blurt something out and it doesn’t sound like a line of bollocks a mile wide, I’ll accept and pretend you mean it for the duration of our acquaintance.”

Vincent wanted to shake his head, wanted to say he was sorry for whatever Eugene had clearly gone through that was nasty, to tell the Valid that he wasn’t alone in experiencing the ugliness of the world. Instead, he chuckled, knowing that empathy was likely to be mistaken for pity, since, in his experience, people had forgotten there was a wide chasm separating the two, “Before my first cup of coffee in the morning, I really make no promises that I won’t blurt, jabber, or even babble, otherwise, I’ll do my best and you can pretend that I’m pretending to compliment you for some reason...or however the mental gymnastics you want to work yourself through, goes to make any of that make sense. _I’ll_ just stick to the basics of what my eyes tell me.” 

“Your eyes? My god man,” a laugh of his own showed itself, incredulous and amused, hand slipping free of the cane’s grip to gesture at Vincent’s glasses, “with those things on, it’s clear you can’t see a bloody thing!”

“See even less without them!” shooting off the rejoinder without thought. Lifted them briefly, and squinted, and all that was his world, was blurs so bad that even the colours were muddy and indistinct. “Without them, you could look like German’s great grandmother and I’d be none the wiser. I’m lucky I can track motion and see light, I swear sometimes...”

The smell of something subtle and woody, was all the warning Vincent gained to harald the touch on his face, the fingers that went to his wireframes briefly, before grasping his jaw and then there were lips on his. Plus, smooth, smoother than any girl he’d kissed, or even thought to kiss. Firmer than a woman’s, but not hard, the only thing hard was the bone of Eugene’s wrist brushing along Vincent’s neck while his hand sank into the hair at the nape of his collar and fingers curling around the back of his neck. Any thought beyond returning that kiss, flew out the window, wasn’t even considered long enough for it to register that not returning the kiss was a possible option. Nothing, just that mouth, it tasted faintly of whiskey or bourbon, some kind of dark and strong hard liquor too rich for Vincent’s taste, or actually his wallet, a hint of cigarette smoke, the texture of faint stubble over that dimpled chin where it brushed his own, the fingers in his hair... Of course he wasn’t thinking under that onslaught, so didn’t hesitate for a microsecond to return touch as well as kiss, to reach for Eugene’s waist, hands grasping before sliding to what instinct and experience told him were the most natural spots to go - an arm around waist, stepping forward, flush, the other moving up, over spine, to shoulder, to face, unconsciously mapping the curved jaw before finally taking a circuitous repeating path from jaw to crown to shoulder to bicep, following that path several times but not quite to the finish of a fourth.

Heart galloping, panting lightly, Vincent only remembered at the last moment to not yank Eugene back in for more when the other man ended that kiss. Relinquishing his hold, making himself step back just a few inches, giving back the space he’d taken without permission, he searched awkwardly around his ears, his neck, the back of his head, for his glasses, “Crap, where’d they go...? Did I drop ‘um? Didn’t hear them fall, I think,” mumbling, “not that I would’ve, head rushing too much...”

“Right here,” amused, and the weight settled on the bridge of his nose, and the touch that had been curious moments before deftly resituated the arms and hooks back in their proper places behind his ears. A tighter smile, almost apologetic, or uncertain came and went quickly over Eugene’s face, “An impertinent test, German saying you were unfamiliar with this sort of business, and sometimes his kind say such things, as, for some, that adds titillation, but while I’m not an altruistic individual, I like to think I’m not the kind who would demand more than the other party wanted or was willing to share...”

Vincent shrugged and went back to grab the valise, nonchalant, “I can understand that. Honestly, I told him men are easier to deal with, at least, in my...well, I suppose sort of limited by a sample group of two guys, over the course of a dozen or so occasions experience indicates. Women on the other hand...” 

“With a far wider range of sample group, I dare say?” making light as well, leading the way one smooth, economical - and beautiful - step down a large winding staircase. “If you say three and two dozen encounters, I’ll laugh, and I’m trying to concentrate on these dratted steps - Matilda overwaxed the damn things again.”

“More than three,” Vincent agreed, having to wrap _both_ hands around the suitcase’s handle, or risk overstepping, maybe even insulting, Eugene by reaching out to touch him, to press a palm to the small of his back. It wasn’t to balance or help, it was simply the desire and need to touch him, one that Vincent was unfamiliar with, or the only thing he could sort of compare it to, was wanting to hug Mom, or hold her hand, or lean up against her sometimes - something affectionate. “Hey, say, have you thought about putting those glue down stair rugs on these? That way Matilda can’t wax them to - what was that kid’s summer toy? Slip’n’slide, do you remember those? Because I remember I found out one time how to make them work really, really well, and the vinyl was completely slick and shiny - some dish soap all over it before applying water -”

Reaching the foot of the stairs, Eugene looked up at him, brow beetled, “I can’t tell if you’re nervous, or if you really do get distracted that easily from a single train of thought. If that’s how your thoughts cascade, it sounds like a regular rabbit warren in there, however do you manage to keep things straight?”

“Depends on what kind of warren you’re talking about? Were you thinking Alice In Wonderland or Alice Through the Looking Glass? Except I’m more partial to black holes that suck in and devour all light, matter, and bend reality with their relentless gravitational pull,” finally seeing a place where he could safely put the suitcase while Eugene pointed with one of his walking sticks. “One thought leads to another, which leads to another. The result of a question isn’t an answer, it’s only the beginning of another question, and that’s why I’m not allowed to check out more than two books at a time from the library anymore, and definitely not allowed near the reference shelves unsupervised...”

Mind wandering, he finally looked up, around, and realized that Eugene was seated at a modestly set table nearby. But in the moments leading up to realizing that, he probably looked like an idiot head craning back and forth, half rotating on his feet in the borrowed ankle boots with their funky side stretchy elastic panels. However, Eugene was watching him, thumb holding up chin, mouth pressed to index and middle finger, elbow on table which, hadn’t Mom always whacked his own elbows trying to tell him that polite people didn’t put their elbows on the table? Initially, upstairs, the regard and observation had been mild, impersonally patient and assessing, aloof, and the glittering perfection of a Valid’s position of assumed superiority. In the end, Vincent had a hard time even classifying that kind of mentality as rude - if it was ingrained by one and all, and was, in truth a mask, similar to Vincent’s own dopey, goofy, and unfocused dreamer that he wore around most people - including other (in)Valids - then he couldn’t take it as anything more than the normal amount of self-protective public persona people of all stripes wore in one way or another. Now, though, that regard was more intense, curious, without any of the great wall that the social divide generally required between two individuals of wildly opposing backgrounds and standing. 

Seating himself opposite Eugene as there didn’t seem to be any other instruction offered beyond the other man already sitting at the dining table, Vincent tried to make himself somewhat comfortable, outwardly pulling on a not quite mask of his own of completely relaxed and affable, unconcerned. “Did I say something strange? Which, knowing me, is pretty high up there in likelihood, except let’s be honest, just like you are what you are, I am what I am, and today that makes me clearly a fish out of water. So if I blow my nose wrong resulting in some kind of noise that’s like a badly translated tribal tongue calling down insults upon your ancestors a dozen times removed - I apologize in advance, and I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sure your dear old great-great-great grand aunt Hyacinthe actually made really nice tea instead of sticks and mud and old dirty socks witch’s brew!”

“That’s it, now I know you’re mad, for it wasn’t many greats-grand auntie Hyacinthe, it was my Aunt Lucille of the _present_ era that makes god awful witches brews, bathes in bottles of scent when a daub will do, collects fucking _peacocks_ to wander the grounds of her estate, and _insists_ upon regaling a man with the same three stories recounted the same way, repeatedly, from the time he was barely eight, until finally driven to such madness that for the sake of life, limb, liberty, and scrap of mind, he flees to the heathen, rebellious colony across the pond, _for a second time_ ,” delivered with dry wit, yet escalating mock shrillness to imply frenzy and frantic desperation. Firmly, steady, completely deadpan, “Not to worry, she’s almost bearable when not actually present, and as she’s not here to squawk at any potential faux pas, accidental curses, insults, and/or spells, consider yourself free of preemptive apologies. Besides, I’ve lived in the States for a third of my life, I think I’m mostly accustomed to what’s acceptable here compared to back home. Do warn me if you’re going to do the Native Dance of Joy, complete with juggled knives, and a pot of boiling water balanced on your head, so that I might prepare myself for the display so that I may formulate an appropriate excuse to not join in the second portion of that circus act.” More open, briefly, reassuring, though it sounded as if it were an unfamiliar role, “Be yourself, it’s worked thus far, and I’m well aware that few, no matter their DNA, received the same sort of devilish instruction on comportment as I did. All the tutors in the world can drill manners and what fork to use or how to address someone into a child’s head, yet still fail to instill the decency that manners are intended to convey to others.”

Vincent still sought to at least follow Eugene’s lead through the relatively quiet meal. The difficult bits weren’t the utensils, Eugene wasn’t really using anything different than what Mom had taught him when he was little beyond the fact that he held his fork upside down in his left hand and his knife with the right - the nearly impossible task for the meal was to not react too much to the food itself. When was the last time he had prime rib? Was it a few birthdays back, where one of his cooking jobs, there’d been too much ordered, and so he’d tucked some aside, to cook special just for himself that day? Yes, that was when. It had only been two or three ounces, not a proper steak at all, but it had been some of the highest quality beef that ever entered Vincent’s mouth. And the roasted vegetables were fresh, not frozen or canned like Vincent had known most of his life, and he could tell the difference damn well, he’d worked enough kitchens and fed himself often enough decently to the point he could to tell. Frozen was a treat, canned was alright, but dried and then reconstituted was Vincent’s norm. Meat was usually the stuff that had reached sell-by date the day before, and was still technically fine, but required lots of salt, acid, and other crap applied heavily to it to preserve it or to make it palatable. But all of this was fresh, cooked as well as anything that was carried out to the tables of The Rain Tree, if not better.

It was pure effort of will, every bite, every measured chew, to not moan, sigh, or shove his face straight into the plate, as though fearful it would all disappear before he could finish enjoying it. The meal was an unexpected, unlooked for, unhoped for, unconsidered surprise that made him momentarily glad that The Rain Tree had let him go today, that he’d taken up German on the offer of this side job. Little stuff, but little stuff was real nice sometimes. The wine was what made him pull away however. 

“What’s wrong?” Eugene asked quizzically. “Something off with the wine?” as he reached out, plucking the glass from Vincent’s hand where he held it pinned to the table, unable to release the hold on his own but also not wanting to hold it at all. The Valid took a sniff and a quick sip, thoughtfully swishing it around, then shrugged, while Vincent downed a glass of water and refiled it from the pitcher on the table hoping to rinse the taste away. “A dry riesling, not the best I’ve had, nor the worst, probably better with fish, but the red I pulled out of storage hadn’t enough time to breathe before our meal so...I went with what I’d had with lunch.”

Pressing his tongue repeatedly over the roof of his mouth, Vincent took smaller sips and surreptitiously swished each drink some through his mouth, each moment thankfully dispersing that disgusting taste from his tastebuds. Clearing his sinuses would probably take longer than rinsing his tongue, but it was better than nothing. “I think...I _think_ I’m not a wine person.”

“You might like the red,” shrugging, while offering logically - and promptly downed in one easy swallow the almost full to the brim glass of white wine that had been Vincent’s undoing. “Or a sweet red or white, or a dry, a port, a shiraz, or any of the multitudes of variations. Or not.” Shoulder hitching dismissively as he explained, “I grew up with wine and beer, my father’s side of the family hails from Brittany, France even though they’re all English stock, and they make a ridiculous amount of wine from the family vineyards. And because somebody decided to branch out, either that, or they visited Belgium one time too many, there’s enormous wheat, rye, and barley fields for beer brewing. Those mad bastards make enough profits and gift out so much of their bottles, that the purely English side of the family is obligated to forgive them for having lived in France for too many consecutive generations to be considered actually English by some.” 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’m more of a liquor man, not that a beer, so long as it’s cold, is something I could turn down, even if the bitter makes me feel like someone took a pasta mill and forced my tongue through it,” Vincent said, not wanting to offend, and at the same time, not caring, figuring that this was, all in all, a much different and more pleasant experience than he thought it would be, so it was only natural that a fly may land in the ointment a time or two. “One of the few things Dad was adamant about the code of manhood was that it doesn’t matter how much you don’t like it, if it’s gone bad, if it’s warm, if somebody offers you a beer, you accept, you drink it, and you make yourself like it.”

Making a face, “Oh, you had one of _those_. My father just said that everything as far as I could see and far beyond it at any point in time, was mine for the taking, and to be polite about not taking no for an answer when grasping what I was entitled to with both hands, and that of course included shagging anything human that moved at every available opportunity, otherwise I would be a shame to the family, and ill-prepared and too much of an embarrassment when finally marrying whatever perfect genetic and social background girl they foisted on me.”

“So yours taught you how to be a jackass, and mine was just a jackass to me, great, I vote we take back their #1 Dad mugs bought for Father’s Day,” snorting at the image painted, because it was laugh, or be so disgusted and horrified, that people could really still believe that way, act that way... Except, the worst part was, was that he had no reason to be shocked, that was the sort of ideology the world crafted for Valids, no matter what pretty words they dressed it up in. Mouth cleared of unsavoury flavour, he was able to once more return to dinner, and asked, intending to keep the conversation going, “So how long do you have before they haul you back by the scruff and march you up to the alter? Or are they keeping you in the dark, because I bet they all realize if you had any warning, you’d be off in the hills before they even got near the airport to come get you.”

Darkness descended over the sun kissed skin, the eyes that were sea glass or calm waters just at dusk with the brightness of Sol casting reflections on them swiftly turned to ugly, choppy waves, and his spine went ramrod straight. “You’re not so blind that you can’t clearly see I’m a cripple, Vincent. There’ll be no settling down, just as there are no visits, no letters, nor calls. I’m a disgrace, an outcast, anathema. To them, I am worse than an (in)Valid. They are overjoyed that I have always preferred the States, as now, they don’t have to bear the embarrassment of inviting me to dinners, teas, family gatherings, holidays, or reintroducing me to their friends and business partners when social niceties require it!” Jaw tight, muscles leaping back and forth over the bone, under that skin, “They curse every moment almost as loudly as I do, that the car only broke my back, rather than killed me. Science was too advanced to allow me to die and save them shame, and me, pain, because while it saved my life, it also offered the false hope of repair. Experimental treatments to mend and graft healthy spinal tissue, oh it returned to me some portion of functionality in my legs, not enough to be useful, however. It gave me full feeling right on down to my littlest toe, at the cost of frequent spells battling waves of burning and electrical fires washing from the ground to just below my navel. I am not broken enough to justify being properly discarded, but _certainly_ not fucking whole enough to be proud of keeping me around as the second place trophy on the god damned mantlepiece!”

Weathering the cold tirade, he waited until Eugene was done. Until the words petered out, ‘til the barely visible tremble in the hands holding fork and knife calmed. He waited, and he stared. No mask. No pretense. No nervousness. No DNA. No role as paid for companion. Vincent was only Vincent, setting aside any and all camoflauge that he had accumulated over the years to get by. It was just Vincent. A human being sitting across from another human being.

Calmly, almost like their statuses, their roles, had suddenly been reversed as to who was calm, collected, cultured, well-mannered, resting the heels of his hands on the table, “An (in)Valid like me is born irredeemable, imperfect, from the moment sperm and egg combine, disadvantaged and no longer important to evolution and propagation of the species. I am clay, unfired, unglazed, messily shaped. But you, you actually are perfection, aren’t you? You’re everything the very first geneticists hoped and dreamed for, worked for. Even those who ascribed to selective breeding in the reaches of time, hoping to increase the chances of beneficial traits, stretching back limitless millennia, had you in mind as the end result, the pinnacle of their realized dreams. You are not clay, you are water, perfect, pure, water, able to take any shape, fill any role, by the very nature of your perfected adaptability and mutability.” No hesitation, not even the small hitch that Vincent only ever lost when talking to himself, reading aloud stories or information or a paper he had written, seeking out flaws. “You can’t hold that shape, though, not without the box or container you’re placed in. So you lived in that container they helped you make, or chose for you, or you chose for yourself. And when the container broke, some of you flowed out, dispersing, diluting, spreading too thin to be seen filling that cracked container of a life.” Eugene was motionless, if it was rage, upset, embarrassment, who the fuck knew, it wasn’t important, and Vincent leaned forward, “When your special container, holding, showcasing, in open, lurid display that your perfection no longer could exist the way they, the world, you, your family, your neighbour, anyone and everyone, all thought was best - they realized that perfection can be squandered. It can be lost, it can fade, be stolen, thrown away...and they, themselves, no matter what geneticist aided them, what doctors tweak and fix how they are day to day, already knowing that they could never be themselves anywhere near so perfect as you, the best of them, were forced to face the fact that what they do have, what they value so fucking much, can be lost even more easily than spilled water over flagstones.”

Eugene levered himself up awkwardly, weight pressing on the tabletop, the dual canes he used to walk, ignored, and then he continued to force himself completely upright. To stand and balance like he was whole, and then he took one step, and then another, to come around the table and lean, towering over Vincent. Fingers slipped into a slim slotted pocket in the vest with the sort of ease of repeated, anxious motion, like a tongue coming out to jab a sore tooth knowing full well it will hurt but _just checking to make sure it still hurt like hell_ every time. A dull coin spinning lazily from a red, white, and blue ribbon was yanked free and dangled in front of Vincent’s face.

“You see this?”

“Yes, it’s very nice, is it a participation award? The schools I went to didn’t give them to (in)Valids, but Mom did make me a few every now and then,” cooling his tone, refusing to react to the barely restrained heat of Eugene’s emotions with anything but the opposite. “My brother usually ripped them apart and threw out the broken pieces in front of me, because an (in)Valid didn’t deserve even that.”

“It’s _silver_ ,” growling as though it was all the explanation in the world.

“I can think of better uses for silver than a piece of jewelry that ugly, doesn’t really look like it goes with your outfits either, you’re more understated elegance that has never had to hear the word ‘no’ or worry about asking how much something costs if you want it,” sarcasm was Vincent’s native shield, wielded with intellect, and enough kindness to keep from trying to inflict pain on others with it as a general rule. This time it wasn’t a shield, it was a targeted sword blow at the gaping hole in Eugene’s armour. “Should pawn it and get yourself a pocket watch instead. That would actually be useful and fit you more than a farmer’s market participation award.”

“ _It’s bloody fucking silver you mouth breathing neanderthal!_ **Jerome** Eugene Morrow was not created for second place, he was created for first, for gold, for perfection, for no errors, no weaknesses, no failures, ever!” the tremble returned, and it shook the silver, second place award on its ribbon. “And the goddamned Olympics! He wasn’t 9 point fucking 3 on the fucking genetic scale, he was 9 point 7 - the highest score ever seen until some group of births in the last year! Registered lower just so he could be allowed into the Olympics instead of barred for unfair advantage! Second place in the Olympics for the whole damned world to see, a shameful failure, and then when he should’ve died, he couldn’t even do something so simple right! Dying’s supposed to be _easy_!”

Vincent stood, having had enough of Eugene using his superior height and perfectly formed body, with or without its agonizing legs, and grabbed the medallion out of the Englishman’s hand, and threw it to somewhere else in the room, somewhere behind him, where hopefully there wasn’t anything breakable. Staring up at those angry, riotous storming sea eyes, “So what? When you were a toddler, and you first tried to stand up on your own, tried to walk and you fell over like the uncoordinated spoilt brat you were raised to be - did everyone scream what a bad job, what a fuckup, what a failure you were for not getting that right? Afterall, they bounce-stood you, half walked you back and forth across their laps, the couch, the bed, the floor, shouldn’t that practice be enough to ensure you could do it all already? They provided you with the perfect genes, plus lots of attention and support to show you just how it’s done for practice - that’s enough for the record holding genetic score.” Reaching up, he grabbed Eugene’s head below the ears, the other man not fighting, tired and angry and hurt or whatever it was that perfect Valids unaccustomed to a real world outside of what everyone in their lives programmed them to believe, “Walking doesn’t work like that, now does it? Running? Swimming? Riding a bike? Climbing a tree? You _have_ to fail so you can learn. If you never fail outside of practices that don’t count, then you never succeed. You never win. It doesn’t matter if the others competing trail you, or don’t do as well. If you don’t fail, you learn nothing. You gain nothing. You _earn_ nothing. You _deserve absolutely nothing_. Mistakes are what teach us what the framework and all the books in the world and instructors and tutors lay out for us. Mistakes, failures, those are what help fill in the outline that the world provides us. Not genes. Not medals.” Chin jutting, “But I see what you mean, with dying being easy. I’m twenty-seven. At birth, they said I’d be thirty years and two months when my heart would go belly up. That is if a weak immune system and a slew of other preventable shit with gene selection, or, if that was missed or it cropped up anyway, with normal fucking medical intervention that they denied giving me because I’m an (in)Valid, didn’t kill me first. Laying down like a beaten dog, waiting patiently, quietly, to die like a properly cowed, evolutionary mistake of an (in)Valid, would be easy. Hell, I might even have a nicer standard of living! But that’s lazy. That’s letting everyone else make the decisions, making the choices for me! I am my own person, I own myself, I belong to myself. Not to anyone else. Not to my family. Not to my friends. Not to the world. It’s the same autonomy everyone’s granted with a chunk of grey, fatty gel with electrical impulses shooting through it. I fail every day, I fail to even manage to breathe right on my own if there’s any trees blooming, that and my stupid blurting shit? ADHD, I can’t even manage to do something so simple as control my thoughts without outside stimuli for ten minutes, no matter how much medicine I choke on. Do you see me laying down? Do you see me giving up like some lazy little pissant who had every single thing handed to them, provided for them, every opportunity, every door wide open if they just choose to head towards it? Who gives a shit what someone else told you that you were meant for - decide what container, what shape, to fill that fits _you_ rather than what everybody else told you was you.” 

Pulling away, awkwardly shoving the dining chair away, freeing up a path for himself, Vincent straightened himself how he could as he approached the staircase, gruffly, “I need some air. Afterwards, if you want to give me a well justified boot out your door, that’s fine by me.”

“And if I don’t wish to expend the effort of raising a boot to such a sanctimonious wanker, what then?” the words weren’t angry, they were quiet, soft, almost hesitant, definitely shaky, uncertain, and once again, Vincent was struck by the way the roles had flipped so fast, so needlessly. “Shall I tell you to sleep on the couch, dear, until I’m no longer wroth with you? Or perhaps we pretend at things like we’re some sort of couple, kiss and reconcile our temporary, angry, argumentative differences, and have amazing makeup sex?”

“You’re the well traveled gentleman, the debonair foreigner, aren’t you? You tell me,” mounting the stairs. “I’m up for anything you throw my way, a challenge is nothing I’ve ever been so afraid of that I backed down to survive. I don’t need basic survival, otherwise, I’d go the easy path at every turn, I’d back down and never reach anything I set out for. I need to live, and not backing down from a challenge is the only way to do that for me.”

“What if I challenged you to jump off the Empire State building?” it was a stupid, absurd question, called from downstairs when he was almost at the front door.

“I’d make sure I had a parachute, I live for a challenge, not die for one, I’m nowhere near that stupid,” rolling his eyes, shaking his head, he exited and closed the door tightly behind himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Vincent was half sprawled on a sculpted cement bench that was installed in the grand edifice of super posh condos that Eugene lived in. One foot on the sidewalk, one on the bench, knee pointed in the direction he longed to be, his hands were tucked under his head, giving him some cushion at least, as he stared up into the heavens. When was the last time he was mad? Honestly, Vincent couldn’t really remember. And was he actually mad? And more than that, why bother _being_ mad at Eugene? He was a high end Valid, from a background Vincent couldn’t even begin to imagine, a pure product of that life, of that world. 

“May as well be mad at shit for stinkin’,” muttering, he gave up, rubbing his face, hands under his glasses for a moment. 

“Sodium bicarb thrown generously over it usually can tone it down,” Eugene’s voice, god, why was it so beautiful? Was that something that could even be _picked_ during gene sequencing? A light thump of something landed in the center of Vincent’s chest, and he reflexively began to sit up as the Englishman, said “Here. You’ll never be able to properly cool off or brood, or ruminate, or even accurately piss and moan about someone, without a cigarette. Without it, it’s just weak complaining or moping like a teenager.” The canes barely made any noise, rubber tips muffling them, but Eugene’s tooled and elegant leather shoes slipped and whispered over the concrete around them as he approached. “Though, I have to say, that elephants, hippopotamuses, several other large mammals of other, but similar types, excluding horses and bovines and sheep and goats, have waste so noxious, that only time or space vacuum could lessen the level of stench.”

Vincent slid over on the bench, making room, a peace offering when he hadn’t ever intended to do battle of wits let alone of words, “Horses, sheep, goats, I know those. Cleaning service I worked for once contracted with a nearby hobby farm off and on...” 

Fingers fiddling with the cardboard and cellophane box of cigarettes, rotating it in hand, it felt good, almost familiar, though he had never been a smoker - waste of limited, ‘disposable’ income. Still, he had seen the gestures so much over the years, that it felt like second nature to flip the top, pluck one of the narrow sticks free, and tuck it between his lips. Tasted awful, smelled awful too, but smoking and drinking were some of the only vices that mankind still considered polite. Funny, when homsexuality hadn’t been criminalized in fifty years, the social culture was so strict and narrow, that it may as well be. Bisexuality was an even bigger leap into depravity and the unacceptable, because someone, at some point, came up with the bright idea that bisexuals were sex crazed fiends, unable to be satisfied with a single partner of one sex, so would always seek affairs with partners of the sex opposite of whatever their committed significant other belonged to. To say nothing, of course, about the fact that bisexuality meant heterosexuals couldn’t tell if someone was _really_ straight, or a dirty, rotten, promiscuous liar trying to hide amongst proper society. 

A clicking snap grind, and a small flame bloomed from a silver lighter near, but not too near, his face, offering to light the cigarette so he could indulge in one of the most filthy habits that hadn’t (yet) been made socially, culturally illegal. “It galls me to admit that I have to say you’re...most unexpected, and that I lashed out at you, behaving poorly, for something of my own doing, long ago, well - long enough ago that it was another lifetime in effect.”

Grunting, “A Valid, apologizing to an (in)Valid, are the people still taking submissions for strange feats, abilities, or records over at the Guinness Book of World Records? Or did they go out of business when I was a kid? I forgot.” Taking a cautious draw off the lit cigarette and passing the box back to its rightful owner, “It’s not important. We’re just people, no matter how we’re designed by chance or intent, we still are human. Maybe I’m an old model on the evolutionary scale, and you, and people like you, are the next. It doesn’t make any of us more or less human than the other. We’re all thinking, feeling, creatures who make mistakes and have good and bad days and so-so days.” Letting him off the hook was easy, they didn’t need to be around each other more than this small segment of time. There wasn’t a next week, or next month, to worry over. It was a weekend at most. “Besides, who cares if you turn into a dickhead every now and then? Hell, you could be full time, full blown, riding around in a horse drawn carriage waving like royalty level of jackass, twenty-four/seven, and you’d never be able to top my little brother, or my dad in that department.”

“They weren’t satisfied with you?” Clarifying, “Your parents, I mean, no, your father, actually.” He paused, lighting up a smoke for himself, “Feel free to tell me to sod off on that one, it’s a nasty subject, I wager.”

“No deal, I won’t take that wager,” a smile crooking his lips. “Mom wasn’t satisfied either. Not really. Mom and Dad fell in love, and they both wanted to leave it in God’s hands. A gift from God that they made with love. Sounds nice in theory, hell, it’s what got humanity to the point it’s at now. But in the world we live in...” Shrugging, “I was born, the delivering doctor did her thing, pricked my foot, read my future with a machine, like some sort of Delphic oracle. Dad, upon hearing my life sentence, opted to nix the plan he and Mom agreed on - me being Anton Jr. And Mom...she was always afraid, if she’s still alive, she probably still is. Every sniffle, every sneeze, every time I tripped on my shoelaces, was a disaster. She could have wrapped twenty feet of bubblewrap around me and stowed me in a house with no sharp edges and made entirely of mattresses, and she would still be terrified that the baby God, nature, and the hope or love or whatever you want to call it gave her, would be yanked away from her hands before her very eyes. She wanted me, but she also wanted a child that would live to grow old and have a full life.” Releasing a jet of smoke through his nostrils - and promptly began sneezing, making stupid noises, while Eugene fought back a few chuckles, rub-thumping his back until it settled down, “Aw crap, man, that always looks so cool when I see other guys do it, but that’s _disgusting_. I think, with my allergies, I’ll just stick to breathing fire out my mouth, and not singing my nose hairs. Gah.”

Hand still rubbing that spot between his shoulder blades, “Yes, that brings back memories - the price people pay to be cool. At Cambridge, it was drinking until you puked, and then hitting on anything that moved, in hopes that the target of your intended advances was equally far gone, or at least, far gone enough to not notice the slurring, drooling, and wobbling, along with the crossed eyes, that were all intended I assure you, to be alluring. Either that or a fistfight, both were acceptable outcomes, topped only by a full fledged brawl.” The smile was evident, self-indulgent, and mocking, “But secondary school, Eaton. Oh, that was eating magic mushrooms, or dropping acid, before a long lecture hall, or even better, written essay exams, and better still, group project presentations, and pulling the above off while the walls are melting, and bonus points if you manage to convince everyone else that you are stone cold sober the entire time when all you want to do is break into fits of hysterical giggles because words sound funny or the lector’s face keeps flickering different colours and their mouth looks like it’s flapping in trapezoid shapes.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” he pointed out. “I don’t know why you’d do it, or what it’s supposed to achieve, but that still sounds challenging. On all fronts.”

“Vincent, we were a bunch of very well-to-do, exceedingly bored brats, locked up into tiny dormitories with males of same age and status, with nothing to do but school and each other to pass the time, except during weekends or breaks where we went back home for a little while,” the chuckle was in full force now. “We had no concept of consequence, few real rules that we actually were worried by, and no parents, or other authority figures we actually feared, to keep us in anything approaching reasonable boundaries. Frivolous stupidity and self-pleasing activities, were really all that was available to occupy our minds, that were ruled by insane hormones and a lifetime of no consequences. Perfect training ground for putting on a sober, decorous face when being scrutinized or seeking to gain something like a high mark, which isn’t unlike payment, and every other moment and scrap of energy was to be spent on pleasing ourselves, so long as we were able to put on the appropriate show when called upon, and that our antics didn’t spill out into adult authoritarian views. Hundreds of years of politicians have cut their teeth there and learned the necessary lessons for success within those lofty halls. Those who didn’t learn quite as well, became lawyers, and the ugly but well learned went into banking.”

“In that case, missing it makes sense,” even if it sounded pointless and boring to Vincent personally.

Eugene shifted his canes to one side, using his hands to guide his legs out in a more directed stretch, even in profile, Vincent could see the light brows draw tight over that narrow nose. “No, no, you mistake me, or maybe I miscommunicated my intent, which is more likely, as I’ve never really thought about explaining myself or, well, much of anything to anyone, including myself. I don’t miss those days, not really. I laugh over what a wanton moron I, and my peers, my friends, all were, and I miss how I was never afraid, was invincible...or, no...no that’s not quite it either.” Thoughtfully, gaze gone inwards, “The illusion of being carefree, yes. There was nothing in my world to truly fear, no pain, no anguish, no loss, no shame. Everything was open to me so long as I reached for it just as you said, and if it was publically closed, in private, it was also open, so long as I had a care in my indulgence. Blind naivete, an absence of anything solid and adult and responsible, being free to believe it would always be that way, no matter how stupid and patently false the belief was in the first place, that’s all it was, but I still sort of long for that opium dream.” 

Now that Vincent could actually understand. He had loved Anton from the moment his parents told him he would have a baby brother in words and actions that his toddler mind could understand. He hadn’t ever feared, ever considered, that Anton wouldn’t be perfect and worthy of that love, of that care, of friendship, of _protection_ because as the elder sibling, it was supposed to be Vincent’s duty to add his own layer of protection, guidance, and experience to enrich his younger brother’s life, and thereby enrich his own. And at every turn, Anton repudiated him. Mocked him. Hurt him. Lashed out. Slapped away any hand held out to him in filial devotion. Some small part of Vincent had believed up until the very day he left home, that Anton would love him, would be his friend, would see him as a sibling that belonged to him, the way Vincent loved Anton. In the end, it was nothing more than a mad, painful daydream.

They sat there in silence, smoking, for multiple, consecutive cigarettes, before Eugene broke the quiet. “Since you’ve deemed my apologies uncalled for, and my behaviour acceptable in spite of that flying in the face of everything I know and have been taught through the years, and believe you were likely taught at least somewhat similar ideals - I have to be blunt and admit that this is nothing at all like what I was expecting or have been accustomed to.”

“Same,” nodding, stretching his arms forward, fingers knotted, until he felt the soft, satisfying pops of his joints cracking from knuckle to shoulder socket. “But what do I know? German didn’t have anyone else to fallback on available, and I’ve had my times around the block with a friend now and then, but to me, I’m just flying by the proverbial seat of my pants, no maps, no idea where I’m heading, no guide book. I can chart the heavens, the seas, the oceans, so long as I’ve got my glasses on, I can navigate by just about anything, night _or_ day, but what I was led to believe was something most consider simple, or easy, has no landmarks that I can divine.” Hitched shoulders, “I’ve never met anyone like you, Eugene, and I don’t mean the DNA bits. To me, those are just building blocks, not the man himself. Small pieces that add up, but don’t define the whole. It takes time and effort to get to know somebody, not a series of amino acids someone nosey and rude can print out on a long piece of paper followed up by a few hours interaction.”

Fingers with barely any callous went to his cheek, palm cupping and tugging Vincent to turn enough to face the Valid. For a moment Eugene seemed about to speak, before choosing differently, and, slowly enough for Vincent to pull away, moved in, moved closer, hooded gaze intent. And he met him halfway, while taking the precaution of tangling his fingers together, locking his hands tight, to keep from reaching out to grasp what _Vincent_ wanted with both hands the way Eugene’s father had instructed the beautiful man to do in the years before the Olympic disaster and accident he had suffered.

It took some time, some more kisses, before they eventually decided to get a move on, and make it from the distant viewing bench back to Eugene’s condo, and then down the stairs. This time Vincent put a companionable arm around Eugene’s waist, bolstering him, under the guise of intimacy. For a split second, Eugene stiffened, shooting him a glower that promised hellfire and damnation for Vincent if he thought for one moment he wasn’t capable, or that it was pity that brought about the contact - to which Vincent gave his best approximation of dopey, innocent, and blithely unaware the touch could be perceived as assistance rather than a desire to be closer. So what if there was a bit of both, just as long as Eugene believed it to be all, or almost all, about want rather than a shoulder to lean on...

“What? C’mon, don’t gimme a hard time,” teasing as he squeezed Eugene’s opposite hip when they reached the last step. “Kisses like that make me wanna crowd too much probably, but hey, I’m only human. Of course a good whack to the back of my head would probably clear out the fuzzy bits.”

Green eyes rolled, “Somehow, I doubt that.” There was a side room downstairs, or what Vincent figured must be one, as there were a few other doors around the lower portion of the condo, all of which had remained closed thus far, and Eugene paused at the center one out of the three possible entrances that graced this side of the condo, a return to studying him thoroughly, “If you’re not too disgusted by the evening’s antics or myself -”

Pressing in close, initiating the kiss this time, not long and slow like the ones Eugene gave, but a solid, hungry one, and swallowed thickly, repeatedly when he broke the contact, maintaining eye contact, “Ditch that word, because that’s not what I am, not by you.”

By some of Eugene’s relayed stories, beliefs? Oh yeah, sure, definitely some thick layers of noisome disgust lived there. Mostly because Eugene seemed better than that, somewhere inside. Definitely, very, very most definitely, disgusted by Eugene’s family’s treatment of him, and he didn’t even know where to start on that. Whether it was how they brought him up, or their behaviour when their perfect genetic container cracked under the weight and strain of what he was forced to be... It didn’t matter, his family bore the brunt of any dislike and disgust as far as Vincent was concerned. Unless or until, Eugene showed otherwise, he would receive the benefit of the doubt, and the treatment of a human being with all the frailties and strengths that came with that.

Whether or not Eugene noticed and was too polite to comment or indicate awareness of the short notice, makedo alterations to the borrowed suit as he helped Vincent disrobe, Vincent didn’t pick up any sign of it. All he could feel was strong hands on him, broad shoulders and arms under his own curious explorations with hands he hoped didn’t come off too rough, greedy, or shaky, and of course he felt the kisses of someone equally eager, but definitely more experienced than himself touching him. Really, truly, honestly, Vincent knew he was as good as any Valid, that there was no real difference in worth or ability when it boiled down to brass tacks. But that belief wasn’t so easy to hang onto when every progressing second revealed more of himself and more of Eugene to be weighed against. 

There was a fumble on his part, but he found Eugene quickly covering it, distracting him, pulling him closer for increasingly breathless presses of lips here and there, and Vincent shuddered when he felt the material of his borrowed shirt pushed open, to his shoulders, moist heat coming to rest over his jugular briefly. Teeth scored lightly over his neck and fingers grasped edges, pulling the last lengths of sleeves from his arms, and he couldn’t help wrapping the other man in the freed limbs, face nuzzling in that peculiar blond-brown mass of half-curls. Tightening his hold briefly, breathing deep of whatever it was Eugene used to wash his hair, stroking along the still shirt covered back, then frowned at that unfairness, beginning to pluck and tug the shirt - at least the vest had been discarded somewhen, somehow - how he could in their current position on the edge of the bed. The sensation of jaw skating over his shoulder or his chest was distracting on its own, the quiet rasp of stubble over his skin and the fact it actually tickled, were all trying to work together to make Vincent forget what his goal was. Hot flash of moisture over a nipple, tongue swirling and a light touch of teeth was a lot more successful in diverting him, but he wanted more than just this. Wanted to share, to explore, to give the same, or to the best of his own abilities. 

Growling, ducking his face to press in the side of Eugene’s neck in retaliation, and desperate volley in the battle to not fall completely under the Valid’s mesmerizing touch, he blew a raspberry. The response and jerking was imediate, startled, and laughing, straightening up and falling back on the mattress, and Vincent followed after quickly, straddling Eugene’s waist, intending on working at small white buttons. Intending, yes, succeeding, no. It took another raspberry, this time to the forearm belonging to the hand trying to make him forget whatever specific, Very Important Thing, he was doing, was the recipient of the absurdly childish ploy. But it worked. Sort of. At least in keeping Eugene laughing too hard, a half curse working free, and amused incredulousness expressed in a gasped word or three, but it also had the side effect of the other man writhing, which did all sorts of pleasant things. Just as Vincent was managing to unfasten the last button of Eugene’s shirt, skittering, featherlight fingers traveled up his sides, around his back, to only then return to the thin skin over his ribs and sides. Jerking, choking on a laugh, balance on knees lost, falling to the side, as best he was able, Vincent retaliated, still trying to also free Eugene of shirt - and undershirt, too, the proper jackass having included wearing a white wifebeater beneath everything else. 

Hand cupping his head, pulling, tugging, and Vincent’s hands were allowed to remain on task, but Eugene had brought him closer, one of his legs still thrown over the other man’s waist. “Contacts,” was murmured against Vincent’s throat, “contacts would let you keep your sight when glasses get in the way.” 

Arching twist, was it his own body or Eugene’s that moved? All that was important was finally another piece of clothing was tossed aside, and Vincent was free to do more than taste jaw, neck, mouth, but shoulders, some portion of chest. There were random seeming explosions of laughter, laughing until they collapsed, uncoordinated, no nearer being undressed than too much time ago. Except Eugene’s laughter was rolling and warm, and there were quiet whispers of encouragement or praise interspersed, dripping and surging in waves out in that voice of his, and Vincent felt drunk on all the touch, the sound, the unfamiliar textures that spread under his palms, or the slither of muscle under flesh that still held the memory of the sun’s frequent touch. 

Contacts, right, he would have to remember that. Except that was an unnecessary expense, his glasses were just fine... Or, well, they were alright, he figured, readjusting them on his nose, the kinked arms that half popped off his ears, yet again, and it was an unwanted irritant, since he actually wanted to _see_ what, more accurately, _who_ , he was touching. Leaning in, searching for another of those mind stealing kisses, “Wouldn’t mind not seeing sometimes, ‘less it’s you, that’s worth seein’.” 

“More compliments?” though he didn’t sound displeased, Eugene levered himself upright, sitting, legs still mostly off the bed, and Vincent realized he, himself was the one sprawling on the thing, which seemed rude. Just as he was wondering how to tip the balance to something more comfortable for the other man, the hand running up his thigh from the knee was aiming for his groin, slowly, steadily, as the other was reaching for belt and zipper, “There’s one way to let you look your fill and reward those sentiments.” 

Vincent propped up on an elbow, and pushed his glasses along the bridge of his nose back up from where they had slipped yet again, he should probably add another few wrappings of wound tape to thicken the spot that rested on his nose so maybe it’d stay in place for five minutes. “Wasn’t looking for a reward, Eugene.” 

A kiss to above his waistband, eyes gone darker, greener, to almost a milky jade, teeth giving him a sharp nip after, “Hush, I know that.” Buckle clanked to one side, undone, zipper making its own weird zippy noise, and Eugene’s other hand cupped him firmly, squeezing through the material of his pants, “Doesn’t mean I can’t grant one when it strikes my fancy. And I fancy doing so, there’s been little enough reason to give in too long, don’t deprive me, or I’ll have to do something childish like pout.” 

Snickering, shifting to lean back on both elbows instead of unsteady on just one, “You would. Fine, fine, I’m your happily captive audience, awaiting your leisure upon baited breath and all that.”

“Much better,” approvingly. Vincent wasn’t feeling particularly pained or urgent, but he was definitely aroused, and Eugene’s touch was rife with comfortable familiarity, not handling his dick like it was going to break if dealt with too firmly, but it also wasn’t the kind of grip that strangled. Pulled free, out for a world of two to see, and Eugene blinked rapidly in quick succession a few times, like he was surprised or something, “Now _that_ is a beautiful cock.”

Snorting, disbelieving, “Bullshit, it’s just a plain old dick, Eugene, had it my whole life. Nothing special about it other than it’s mine. It’s not my ego that ever needed any strokin’.”

Laughter, this time utterly incredulous, not just the shades of earlier, but total, complete disbelief. “Oh no, no, no and no, this here,” firm hold and a shake that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but sure was demonstrative, “is a _gorgeous_ cock, and there’s no need whatsoever to pretend humility, or if real, to even have a single scrap of humbleness over what mother nature gave you all on her own!” A long, smooth, rippling finger flexing grip went from base to crown and down, and Vincent bit back a groan, shifting hips, and tried to listen to what Eugene was saying with that extremely riveted gaze on what Vincent was pretty sure was just the same as most guys had. “Perfect, definitely perfect, good god, if it’s not prettier than mine, I’ll eat a hat.”

Squirming under that level of scrutiny, and he suddenly realized the worst part of this whole scene, was that he hadn’t ever received any kind of personal compliment before. So how the hell did he handle _this_? Eugene’s pace was slow, sort of like play, but mostly, the utterly terrible aspect, was that the Valid was as focused as though it were a fascinating, rare specimen brought into lab conditions. 

Mumbling, knowing that his pale skin was giving him away with the heat in his face, “You don’t hafta say anything like that. Really, just the same as any other guy, don’t need to tell me any different.”

Straightening up, hold going slack, brow arched, “You really believe that, you really don’t know. Look, I’ve been told my cock’s very nice, once, it was even called lovely, but nobody has ever considered it pretty, let alone gorgeous. Not even me, and I live with my cock day in, day out, and likely play with it frequently enough that if I were religious, I’d be afraid of going blind. I like my cock, I’m proud of it, and most of all, fairly attached to it... But yours...” trailing off, shaking head, the hand tightening suddenly up beneath his crown, and Vincent hissed, “Yours, is a thing of beauty.” Letting go, and Vincent was free to take a deep breath, while Eugene was the very picture of proper suddenly, “Don’t believe me? Fine, if you’ll handle removal of our footwear, I’ll get the trousers bit, and I’ll prove it to you.”

Understanding dawning, that this was just more play, and not really bad play, just very unfamiliar, Vincent moved to get rid of his own boots and socks, letting them fall down with clunks, before squatting to untie and carefully free Eugene of his own shoes. The foot in his hand was cold on one side, sock on or not, and he tugged those off too, tucking each black bit of knit cloth into a respective shoe one handed, being neat, while trying to chafe some warmth or half massage the foot in his grip currently. Hadn’t he said that they hurt him? That his legs had full feeling, but subjected him to agonies off and on whenever they felt like it? Focusing on each one individually, able to easily imagine how just bad a foot could hurt, seeing as he worked standing on his own for hours upon hours often enough. It was that sort of thing that really was a raw and unfair deal, sore, blistered, hot, bleeding, feet were all hellish on their own, but to add the other...nope, not right, terrible. 

Bemused, “You really are a sweet one, aren’t you, Vincent?” A short huff, shoving with a practiced buck-squirm situp at the slacks he was wearing, pushing them down to just above knee, “I’m alright, you know, it’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be. The combination of drugs has almost got it down right, so it doesn’t flare frequently.” 

Vincent shrugged, letting the still graceful, sturdy boned, slow responding feet fall back to the rug beside the bed. “Circulation’s still important and I was right there, nothing to it.” He was glad that there was some kind of medication that would help Eugene to not be subjected to that nightmare description all the time. Since he was there, he helped the tan slacks reach their final destination - anywhere not on Eugene, and let his palms fluff and rub over the surprisingly dense hair on calves and ankles. “I always read that swimmers had to be hairless, less drag and traction in the water against the body. Looks silly, itchy, stubbly if it’s not shaved all the time, but you’re actually kinda soft. It’s much nicer,” than the springy, stabby, wiry hairs both of his male friends had sported from pretty much every inch below the waist. 

“Haven’t done quite as much swimming as I used to,” flippantly, “and that was an aspect I would always rather do without. Hours, hours I tell you, spent weekly, even in off season, because letting it grow back and then trying to work through the regrowth when the season began again...? There’s not enough hours in the day to handle that and have any life to live.” That was the end of the subject matter obviously, or at least obviously enough to Vincent, who found Eugene cupping his face before kissing him, and pressing him up to stand in the midst of it. Head tipped back, knowing and wicked, voice dropping to an impossible level that flowed and filled Vincent’s ears, “Now then,” firm shove at the waist of his pants and the boxers he was wearing, “where were we? Oh, that’s right, you, and your beautiful cock, and the silly belief that it’s not even a smidge special.” Shivering where he stood, Vincent watched Eugene’s hands and mouth re-explore the plains of his chest and stomach. “I very much beg to differ,” sultry as any woman could ever be described, yet as unwaveringly male as any definition outline, and light years more erotic, each word accompanying the chill of air puffing over the wetness of tugging, sucking kisses given between each of those words. It was a knee weakening view, a mouth drying response shooting straight to his brain. There was strength in the press of fingers digging into his skin with each grasping pass. All of it, hypnotizing, and it didn’t stop, anything whispered against his freckled, pale skin, was more of the same. “Vincent, you needn’t be a statue of stone, I won’t let you fall over, and you most certainly don’t need to worry I’ll disappear if you touch me.”

“And what if I take hold of what I want with both hands?” stubbornly holding out, not that Vincent knew why or what he was particularly trying to resist. At least not beyond resisting the demand for more, more, more, and to grab, to hang on, uncaring of what direction was gone in, or who was in control, so long as he was able to hold fast without a scrap of remorse, with both hands, to what he was _not_ outright entitled to. 

Open mouth, scorching heat, and the sworl of tongue all at once, flat nails dragging dented, temporary designs over his sides, his back, his thighs, his ass, that tongue pressed firmly against the side of his shaft - Vincent couldn’t look away, and he was rapidly losing the focus needed to tell him if that was the answer or not. Amused, satisfied, pleased, humming and a deeper draw, and Vincent swore the sky was painted over the ceiling of the bedroom as the only explanation for why there were stars and constellations when he threw his head back, that he heard one of those bright, delighted laughs that had burst free from Eugene earlier, even though that had to be just inside his own head, some kind of synesthesia or, or, or. 

Groaning deeply, leaning forward, hands, hands needed to touch, Vincent had to, couldn’t stop watching... Couldn’t stop watching Eugene’s adept...well, everything, how that mouth wrapped around his tip, or took other, temporary paths, sidetracking, the way lips curved every now and then when free to do so, self-satisfied and as arrogant as he had every right to be. The comparison of his own hands over skin that should know the sun again, should feel salt and water, even if it wasn’t the way it had been, Eugene’s form shouldn’t be banished from open air and the gilding of their solar system’s star bringing out every bronze and gold fleck that existed in it. All those that remained were made bright when set beside Vincent’s pasty skin, displayed with moving caresses delivered hungrily to those arms, those shoulders, face, neck, head, forearms...anything, anything Vincent could reach and still remain upright. 

Orgasm hit like a sledgehammer, Vincent babbled, the world swam, and anything he had thought had been decent sex before, was a thousand galaxies away. It took him a moment or twenty minutes, they were probably one and the same, for Vincent to clue into the fact that one, he hadn’t fallen. His knees hadn’t given out and had him tumbling over like a felled tree. Two, he was horizontal, and that his head was on a pillow, a shared pillow, with green eyes with light all but twinkling and dancing in them like distant constellations viewed on a clear night. Three, he was very much still keeping a two handed hold on Eugene, one on the nearest, upturned hip, the other, sandwiched between pillow and cheek. 

The Valid propped up on a tucked in elbow, imperious and smug, that mouth stretched in a cheshire’s secret gratification. “I told you I wouldn’t let you fall to the floor no matter how excellent your impression of a stoic statue was, it was inevitable the stone would crumble at my direction. Honestly, I’m very good at giving head. You know, like they say, practice, practice, practice, makes perfect.”

Puffing his cheeks out, “You convinced me already, but I’m not very polished, easier to convince, I suppose. Fair warning, I’m nowhere near as good as you, not enough of that practice thing, if that’s good enough for you, then I’d be happy to demonstrate that lack of opportunity to practice.” Heart gradually slowing down to normal speed, Vincent watched how feathery soft, smooth curls twisted and changed into invisible patterns traced over Eugene’s chest, it was almost meditative for him, was certainly calming for some reason. “I’m afraid that this time, I’m at disadvantage, but the handicap benefits me, not you so much -”

“Vincent, it doesn’t matter,” snorting, dismissing it with a flick of a hand, one that promptly found its way to the small of his back, urging him closer, “there’s no competition, no ranks. Just contact, flesh, heat, another body, with all the above to be enjoyed as much as can in the time available.” 

That moment he realized something, while watching the Valid roll over enough to bring something out from the nightstand drawer - the other man had to be abysmally lonely like this, where this was all that could be accepted or reached for. Something bought and paid for, played with, and then sent away before anything was risked. They really sort of were two sides, same coin, with the same outcome of almost complete and total isolation in a world that had little acceptance to share with anyone. 

Scooting closer, Vincent kissed the back of Eugene’s shoulder where an imperfect, pink dent of an old scar sat. “Then I’d like to know what you’ve got on your mind for the next round.”

Bottle of lube in hand as he turned back to face him, “Demonstration of just what my rather nice cock can do.” 

But before they got anywhere near that point, there was another long, tussle, filled with startled laughs, and more good humour than Vincent had ever thought possible in bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Pressure pressing in lightly, circling out, then back in, and Vincent moaned, waking up gradually. Slick finger teasing at his ass before dipping in, and - “Fuck you Eugene, oh god...” heartfelt and hungry, Vincent bit off another moan in the pillow. “That is _good_ ,” choking when the teasing stopped long enough to massage his prostate firmly, circling it, tapping, practically Morse code, probably that ungodly beautiful jackass’ name or something, and he pressed back, wanting more. 

Eugene was tangled up behind him from earlier, one arm under him, holding him close, palm lazily rubbing up and down along his belly. The Valid’s mouth rested right behind Vincent’s ear, and he could hear every barely suppressed amused snort or chuckle that was held back, but nothing could mask the tone of great and deep mirth in that voice that was mana from Heaven. “Like that, I take it?”

 

“ _Yeah_ ,” gasping his reply when Eugene added a second finger with less warning than last time. “Eugene’s too-e-early to tease a guy, s-s’mean -” clench-rocking with and against the massage as it started to build, and get even better, “- want -”

“I know,” murmured, kissing the two words into the back of his head. 

One of the sets of shakes, not an orgasm, not quite, but almost like one, breezed its way through him from head to toe, there and gone almost within a breath. Clenching his eyes shut, wanting a lot more than what Eugene was likely to taunt him with for however long, he strung together a sentence that hopefully made sense, “You - wanna make y-you feel, holy shit-fu, n-not all for me.”

Rotating wrist, twisting fingers, angle changed, deeper, and Eugene whispered mildly in his ear, “Are you quite certain? Because you seem to be having -”

 

Vincent had had enough, reaching back, pulling free of Eugene’s hold that was far too torturously perfect in all the right ways, he rolled and pressed closer himself, crowding, getting the former swimmer onto his back. “I want you to feel like you make me feel. Not as good as you, but I want you to _know_ -”

“What are you waiting for?” chuckling, interrupting him - in the mornings, in the middle fo the night, there was a lot of cut off thoughts, sentences, interruptions galore, and the arm Vincent wasn’t holding imprisoned came to wrap back around him. “All you had to do is say so.”

All the permission Vincent needed was right there. 

Mouth was always the starting point. Always, always had to have that first, had to reexplore and taste, had to suck on a lip before anything else could be seen to. Not that Vincent could see clearly, his glasses were off, it didn’t matter, it wasn’t important. His hands and mouth, his body, did the seeing, the mapping, with up close views of skin that was in focus only when it was right in front of his nose. That suited Vincent just fine. Except he didn’t get to see Eugene’s expressions, to see if there was something done that forced him to bite a lip, or to make that half-grimace that wasn’t pain at all, rather it was concentration on how right something felt. He would make do, he would use his other senses to see all that could be, experienced, shared, that he could take with both hands and not let go of - for the time being at least. 

There hadn’t been any exaggeration in Eugene’s description of his penis as ‘lovely’, not that Vincent had many to compare it to, but it was as far as he could tell. Like the man said, it was one of those things that wasn’t really important, not a competition, but Vincent was still a fast learner. He always was, always worked hard for that, too. So, not a competition over who had the better cock, the bigger muscles, the better genes, bigger brain or anything else. Didn’t mean that Vincent hadn’t picked up what he could between scattered thoughts and sensory overload during the hours spent in bed over the last two nights and the first few hours of the day before. This was the challenge then, the one Vincent set himself, reaffirming it every time Eugene made him lose his mind or kept him held there for interminable, blissful, eternity before finally finishing - drive Eugene as far as he could each time. Last time Vincent had claimed his turn to call the shots, there had been multiple occurrences of that grimace-concentration face, paired with a bite to his neck that dug deeper than the other times, being utterly incautious and forgetting his perfect poise for a few split seconds. 

Mouth, yes, mouth, jaw, neck, those were where everything had to start, and tempting as that morning thick and heavy erection was that was so easily brushed against with every shift to reach another place to kiss or stroke, Eugene’s length had to be ignored as long as possible, while maintaining interest. With steady, methodical cataloguing of reaction, of taste, sound, Vincent reminded himself - _hips_ and _waist_. Those, if caressed, kissed, licked, nipped, just right, would receive a string of hissed curses and demands for more, hands in his hair, but not quite a loss of control. Didn’t know why that was, and the mantra Vincent repeated to himself, was that it didn’t matter why. 

Under the light blankets and sheets, Eugene’s legs rubbed against his own, at some point Vincent no longer consciously noticed the harsh twitch of a muscle forced to obey the orders the Englishman’s brain sent. Instead, he noticed the warmth of skin, more body, seeking to wrap up and tangle with him, luring and baiting with action, a few whispered words that were half some other language and snarky praise. There was more lust in this morning’s rainfall of words spilling free from Eugene’s mouth, a sharper indrawn breath when Vincent scooted down, to the side, leaving trails of moisture behind the open mouthed kisses he spread. Rocking back to sit on his heels, shoving aside some of the night tossed bedding, to free up space to apply what came to mind, what drove him, what he had learned, a dozen different ‘what’s adding and blending, until all there was, was a constant wave of touch that Eugene arched into or squirmed away from alternately. Vincent didn’t even know what it was specifically he had done - the hands stroking along hot-cold hairy calves that had managed to retain a fair percentage of their lean muscle mass, while laying kisses that had become biting ones rather than sucking, over inner thighs? Could’ve been the moment when Eugene twisted onto his other side, presenting a hip, and Vincent hummed the kisses he laid there, both hands occupied, one with massaging from asscheek to a point between stark, jutting shoulder blades. Truthfully, it could’ve been any particular moment of blurry flesh that Vincent was paying fierce devotionals to that no amount of Hail Mary’s would ever absolve from a soul that didn’t care about absolution. All that mattered was Eugene breaking down and the moan didn’t even have a hint of ironclad self-control like usual.

Smearing quickly slicked fingers through the bottom of Eugene’s cleft, keeping him pinned partially on his side, under Vincent only because Eugene allowed it, and used a knee to help brace and push up the unruly top leg that would make entry more difficult than either one of them needed. There wasn’t much need to test or tease, the lubricated digits sank in with only the resistance of eager flexing muscles, but he liked the feel of how hot it was inside Eugene, and this close, cupping his face so, if he squinted, he could almost make out the fact that the other man kept biting his lip or baring teeth in an attempt to quiet the sounds of his panting. Steadily, fingers working, twisting back and forth, rolling over the hard lump inside the flexing channel, Vincent caught his own breath, his heartbeat slowing, the frenzy he had fallen into easing up some, and let him wring what signs of cracked control he could from Eugene with each insistent, repetitive touch of fingers.

Damp hair was tugged and the other man thumped his head against the pillow, hissing, “ _Bloody hell_ ,” which twisted into an escalating groan when Vincent arched forward enough for his cock to glide over Eugene’s, “in me now...”

That was the last thing, that was the goal, and Vincent slid a hand, grasping himself, guiding his cock into Eugene, muscles trembling for a breathless moment before he felt he dared continue. Hands reached for his shoulders, his face, smoothing and gripping as Vincent set a lunging rhythm that was the closest he could get to the throbbing beat in his veins. Head hanging, sweat beading up over him, over Eugene, making every surge of his cock in and out of the tightening sheath smack loudly. With the increasing slick, the position that pressed unintentional half gasps or groans from Eugene - that was the closest to forgetting self-discipline yet! - would soon be at risk without a change. Readying himself, mentally trying to hang onto that thought, eyes clenched shut to gather will, there was a light touch over his face, his ears, light weight on his nose... 

Lids snapping open, shuddering, then yanking Eugene closer, leg pulled and tucked high on his waist with that slippery shift, and sight, blessed fucking sight, and Vincent held nothing back, mouth seeking out a lip swollen from teeth digging in too many times while trying to hold back the increasingly unrestrained sounds of passion. Tasted of copper, copper and salt, the sucking lick grew into longer tastings interrupted frequently to nip or bury a cry in shoulder or neck - Vincent was holding on by a thread, one that threatened to snap whenever he watched Eugene’s neck arch, head pressed back, body bowing and determined to get even closer, arms and even troublesome legs, wrapped tight and forget any hint of poise or grace. 

Chanting between kisses, with every thrust, “Beautiful, so beautiful,” Vincent didn’t know how much more he had left, but intended to give and give until he shattered and drowned in Eugene’s perfection completely. When it came, that tide, that final force, it was with green eyes dazed and rolling back, semen spilling and smearing between them as Eugene quaked under, around, him, and Vincent followed with a reverent sigh, the last bit of strength fleeing him along with his release.   
XXX

Releasing an unhappy moan as he began to knuckle and rub the heel of his hand into his eye, Vincent was aware that his whole body felt like one big bruise or very worn out muscle. There was weight on the center of his chest, too, something round but coming in at about the same weight as his biggest astronomer’s compendiums, and that was about fifteen pounds. Had he fallen asleep again while going over it?

 

“Your heart hiccups every dozen or more beats,” lyrical and right - Vincent’s mental fog from an exhausted nap cleared up enough to put name to that voice that could talk all day as far as he was concerned. Eugene. The weight lifted, and Vincent cracked eyelids, then blinked more rapidly when Eugene reached over him to the side, bringing back his glasses and deftly affixing them where they did some good. “Perhaps a small perforation in a valve, or one not closing properly. It should be an easy enough fix -”

“Yeah, for some,” grimacing at the reminder. “Delivery surgeon already listed it all out, narrow aorta, bunch of malformed chunks in there that mean at some point, that it’s going to just burst or break apart into globs of useless meat.”

The Valid’s brows drew down above his nose, “What I was hearing wasn’t anywhere near so bad as that. It’s mild enough that you probably would live a fairly normal lifespan if you avoid poor diet and listen when your heart tells you it needs you to slow down for a bit and let it rest.” Shaking his blond head and planting it in a palm, “A graft or patch is a ten minute operation that would correct most of the problem.”

“In the world outside, I’m an (in)Valid stuck with a list that was tacked onto my identity at birth, that was a mile long, and tells insurers, doctors, hospitals, even ones that would take a fairly healthy (in)Valid, that I’m not worth it,” Vincent snorted a few chuckles, rubbing the bridge of his nose, because it was accept that or be upset, and he didn’t want to be upset about the injustice of the world. Not right now, not for the next few hours at least. “If I’d been born five years later, the hospital would’ve been empowered to offer my parents the option of humanely euthanizing me before I lived a life no doubt full of some kinda suffering or another.”

Disapproving and disappointed hum, and Eugene winced before rolling onto his stomach. “I keep forgetting that the States have always been so focused on the bottom line. In England, (in)Valids can’t be denied reasonable interventions. Then again, (in)Valids are the severing class, and one must keep the servants healthy enough to carry the salmon terrine Mummy requested to go with afternoon tea. Or weed all the hedgerows so they’re half a foot taller than the tallest Valid in the house. Must have our gardens, our golf caddies, the laundresses...” 

“What happens when there’s no more (in)Valid births? Who’ll clean the shitter?”

The smile was more of a sneer, one not directed at Vincent, “There’s always been a serving class in England, darling, and there always will be. Policy makers, the elites, will all convince those Valids of all other classes, that it’s inhumane to eliminate an entire population, by sterilizing them or insisting that they give up their religious freedoms to have faith births. That’s the line they’ll begin with, and if it doesn’t sell, the next would be to ask what Valid would like to take a job as a janitor, a maid, a servant, a stripper... Then anyone with the right to vote, will be screaming for the (in)Valids to be not just kept around, but encouraged to breed a bit more, in trade for a park in one of their ghettos, maybe a school, so they’re not all illiterate simpletons, maybe they can join the world of the real people if they apply themselves...” Tongue clicking against teeth, “The States has no foresight, the Valids of any class that turn down careers and tasks that the (in)Valids are still numerous enough here to fulfill, will find in a few more generations that genesquenced or not, someone’s got to unclog the loo, and that means them.”

“Fuck all that,” making a face, Vincent sat up, scooting so his back was almost at the headboard. “Both outcomes are stupid.”

Hands opening and closing, letting the thought go, “Never said it wasn’t. It simply means that back home, you wouldn’t be turned away from a hospital for a full workup, and any reasonable interventions or precautions would be carried out. While here, because a machine said that there was a chance of your laundry list of ailments occuring, that you should be put out with the morning trash. Yanks have their Stock Exchange, but they seem to have forgotten what ‘investment’ means.” 

He still didn’t want to talk about it. Eugene had his shit that was best to avoid, and Vincent had his. Toeing up an errant pair of familiar slacks and checked them. The blue tag meant it was from the loaners that German had provided, instead of one of Eugene’s custom, handmade, tagless pieces. Yanking them on with a hop from one foot to the other, he let Eugene talk himself out on the finer points of just how to subjugate a class of humans for the use of the elites for the immediate future, and the far off one... Except the other man hadn’t continued, it was just quiet behind him on the bed, and Vincent cast a glance over his shoulder to check up on him, and saw him watching him casually from the same spot he’d been in.

Turning the rest of the way around, hand scratching and carding through hair that had been happy enough to return to its normal spikiness when whatever hair gel German had applied Friday night wore off, “Ah-hey, you okay?” 

Drolly, eyes rolled, and Eugene’s head fell down atop crossed arms over one of the pillows, still laying on his stomach - nice view, but not very practical, “I can’t sit down. Might have something to do with this morning’s exertions.”

“Crap, sorry - would usin’ the canes to stand help? I mean, it’s better than laying on your stomach, right?” suggesting, figuring that it may not be ideal, but a bit of movement and staying vertical should help relieve some of it.

A dry, huffing chuckle, “Oh, no, no, the canes are only for short periods of time. I only bother with them when cooking, or when I’ve got company. The rest of the time is spent languishing in a lovely, classic wheelchair, for hours on end. I told you, my legs aren’t really functional anymore, truly making them support as much weight as I do when using the canes, exacerbates everything, so should be saved for when absolutely required. Moreover, I’m lucky if I can use them in fifteen minute blocks, which makes them useless for going anywhere. ”

....That would explain the sitting as frequently as possible bit, and why even though Vincent had seen him get around with the canes with admirable skill and grace, none of those instances had lasted beyond ten to fifteen minutes. 

Wincing at the information, coming around to the other side of the bed, Vincent squatted beside Eugene, chin coming not too far above the mattress, “I’m really sorry, Eugene.”

“No you’re not,” head lifting to face him, nose up, all that superiority back on in force, “I’ve got you all figured out. This,” elbow pointing to his backside, “was all a clever ploy to make it so I’ll have to spend much of the day draped over the couch and armrests, all up on display and ready for use, or at least an interesting view!” Lips doing that firming pout thing that wasn’t really one, but some weird thoughtful and curious, dismissive expression, “You just can’t get enough can you, Vincent? What are you, twenty? And if you’re twenty, can I bottle a bit of you up, because I’d rather like to have that much stamina for a night or two once again. I miss twenty, that was a good age, here I am, all done in, at age twenty-six, just from a bit of rumpypumpy. God, the horror.”

Not knowing what to make of that, worried that this time it wasn’t teasing, “I-I wouldn’t do that, not on purpose, just for that sort of thing -”

Green eyes pinned him, and the Valid scoffed, “Oh stop that, I’m having you on and making sport of myself at the same time. Relax, come here and kiss me or something, and maybe fetch my wheelchair if you please, I’d rather sit on a sore ass than look like a fool with hemorrhoids or other terrible problem.” That was easily done, and Vincent was relieved, taking a long, thorough minute or two to kiss Eugene. Softly, gaze paler from reflecting lamplight, face still close, “Go on then, darling, I’ll be right here, not going anywhere. It’s in the room to the left of this one.”

What was left of the day was more leisurely than Saturday had been. Brunch was cheese, fruit, some yogurt, and nuts, pulled from the fridge and cupboards, easy and quick for Vincent to do himself while he kept a weather ear for Eugene maybe needing a hand since he was in the bath. There was not much discussion, Saturday all through the day, and on into the late evening, even some during breathers from sex - that had been almost nonstop conversation. At some point, Vincent went and gathered up the few things he’d brought, packed them, so they’d be easily grabbed come the time when German would pick him up, and the weekend would be over. 

Vincent had somehow managed to convince Eugene to come outside again, in spite of any remaining soreness - though the man denied its presence, the swaying glide of his walk wasn’t as easy as it had been, and risking growls or being pushed away, Vincent had looped an arm around that now familiar waist, tightly enough to take a significant amount of Eugene’s weight. Yeah, the Valid tensed, shot him a disapproving look, before sighing, relenting, and tiny, bemused smile had formed, and let him help with the getting out closer to the viewing platforms of the water crashing on rocks a few meters ahead. The condo complex was pretty good about providing frequent, handy benches, some even ergonomic and looked kind of like they were supposed to seat two very friendly people. One of those benches is where they sat, smoking, watching the clouds scuttle across the sky, the gulls circle, the occasional pedestrian... 

“I haven’t been out this close to the water, since the day before the accident,” imparted with a trail of smoke floating free like a lulled dragon’s breath, and coiling jets shooting from nostrils, and Vincent quirked a smile, thinking that Eugene didn’t look ‘cool’ at all doing that motion - rather, he was ephemeral. “The sidewalks aren’t wheelchair accessible, and knowing my luck, a cane would get stuck, and I’d fall face flat, only to be found by someone who could gossip all about the stupid bugger who thought he could navigate sand like a normal person.”

Vincent shifted to lean against him when Eugene draped an arm over the back of the bench, “Why not ask a friend to go with you? That way, only someone you don’t hate sees it, and will crack a couple jokes about it before forgetting about it. If it even happened. Maybe get your feet wet, build a sandcastle.”

“Rather stick my head in the oven, gas on, and smoke a cigarette,” countering, the weight of his look one Vincent felt, and only caught from the corner of his eye. “Do me more good than a sandcastle, don’t you think? And why even build something like that, it’s silly.”

“It’s fun, who cares if it’s silly?” Pointing out, “What are they gonna do, arrest you for playing with some sand on a beach you’ve got bathers rights to, since you live in that big ass concrete fortress back there? Oooh, the heinous criminal act of building a sandcastle, maybe with a moat, and a couple scavenged seashells, it’ll be in the papers, on the news, bulletins shouting out - brazen criminal had a moment of fun with something simple!”

Laughter, softer laughter, a private kind that didn’t travel far, but shook the frame Vincent was lightly touching with his left side, from shoulder right on down to stretched out leg, the contact a strange kind of intimacy that Vincent had never had before, but he liked it. Tapering off, Eugene was watching him, almost grinning, some of the luster of his bearing from the day before and Friday seeping back into him. “You are absolutely bizarre, Vincent. Don’t you dare ever lose that, it makes you completely unique and utterly one of a kind. And then where would you be? Psh, normal, _boring_ , instead of you, and I rather like you how you are.” A finger came out, tilting his glasses, “Even these aren’t so offensive as they should be, almost endearing, if you don’t wear them, how will I recognize you? You’d just be any other machine made Valid, clomping along industriously with all due decorum.”

“C’mon, fuck you, always giving me a hard time, you’re such an asshole,” but he couldn’t help an echoing grin, and the blush didn’t make any sense, but it was there, hopefully not too noticeable. 

“A funny one though,” agreeing swiftly, lighting up a fresh cigarette. “Funny and pretty, actually, and that’s a rare combination, I daresay. Not even back home where we’re supposed to be known for dazzling wit, dry humour, and dashing good looks, and if all else fails, a decent accent that can compensate for any unfortunate aspects of our personality. But someone with all of the above? Oh, now that’s about as rare as a unicorn.”

“Wouldn’t say it was the accent itself, more the voice,” averring, and made himself look aside, pretending not to see when Eugene frowned at the watch face on his wrist. “What is it?”

“Our friend will be by in half an hour to pick you up and put an end to our playdate,” the smile was reflexive, brief, polite. “Back to regularly scheduled doldrum of life’s business, all that pleasant steaming pile of horseshit, that you and I both absolutely adore. Maybe you could do my day job, and I’ll try out yours, do you think they’d notice someone mopping while in a wheelchair?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t, sometimes,” standing up, stretching, and holding out a hand for Eugene to take if he wanted. It was, and Vincent let himself admire the texture of that hand against his before their grips shifted to forearms for better leverage. There was so much corded strength in Eugene’s arm, the delicate dance of flexing tendons and sinew flowing to accommodate the whole motion of using its strength to haul that body upright. “Don’t think you’d be happy in that sort of place, though, be a waste of your shining personality, only a bunch of tired, shufflin’ workers who don’t care about a smart rejoinder or observation, they just wanna get the work done and go home.”

“That’s the story of humankind, Vincent,” snorting. “Come along then, dear, and let’s hobble along, maybe we’ll even get back to my place before he shows up.”

Of course they got there before, long before. If twenty minutes was a long time. It was long enough for a few last kisses. Those were probably the most addictive substance in the world, or at least, were to Vincent’s point of view. Maybe it wouldn’t be a one time deal, Vincent didn’t hold out hope for that, but it was nice to tell himself that while being as thorough as he could be in memorizing the way every breath felt, the touch, the way the other man smelled, the texture of his hair, all of it. 

A last hum, pulling away, Eugene pulling away when the timer on his watch buzzed. “Time’s up, dear, German’s out front.” 

Vincent hoped he masked the sudden drop of disappointment, ducking his head as he stood up, “Yeah. Well, uh -” hesitating after plucking up the valise, and made himself turn back towards Eugene, opting to go with what was in his head, “I had a nice time, didn’t expect that, so, thanks. And -”

“Oh shut up and kiss me again, you sentimental tit,” it was that playful bit of harshness, that wasn’t really harsh at all. That kiss was swift, but it also came with Eugene passing hands over his shoulders, straightening his collar, and making some attempt to possibly leave Vincent presentable. “Much tidier. And lest I forget,” hand delving into the sage green sportcoat he wore, and withdrew two envelopes. Each was hefted in turn, “This one, is for German.” The first was white, dense, waterproof paper. The second was similar, though the contents shifted like something besides just bills, “And this one’s yours. _Don’t_ tell him about the other one, they always try to see where they can sneak more than they’re owed. If he finds out, tell him to speak to me, and that I specifically intended it for you, I’ll not have you cheated.”

XXX

German offered him another client, a one nighter, the next Friday, when apparently the fixer had intended on taking him back to Eugene’s, to continue to cover for the Englishman’s usual companion, who was barely through the worst of his illness by all reports. But apparently something had come up, and Eugene canceled. So, he squashed the portion of himself that was disappointed, since on the drive back from Eugene’s last Sunday, German had deemed the visit a sufficient success to have Vincent continue covering if he wanted to, had raised Vincent’s hopes. Stupid, right? What sort of hopes in that direction could he have? It wasn’t the sex, it was something else. Maybe it was the conversation, maybe it was feeling like even being so different personality-wise, he was still seen, while he saw Eugene. That had been...that had been more amazing than the sex, which in of itself, honestly, was enough to make Vincent think that there wasn’t going to be anything better than that in his life, _ever_. The one nighter job wasn’t bad, though. Wasn’t great. He did feel like taking an extra thorough shower afterwards, and splurged some of the cash he earned on buying a cannister of real coffee, and a small bottle of some aftershave he noticed at the store that smelled spicy, a cheap knockoff, but better than the plain witch hazel he used any time he nicked himself. 

Monday saw him back at work, in his uniform coveralls, his mind wandering away to realms beyond the weight of mop, the glass cleaner, the list of tasks he was assigned. Usually his head was in the stars, nowhere near such terrestrial things as clouds, his mind wasn’t bound by Earth the way his body was. The only clouds his mind traveled to before, were the ones that packed thick around Titan. Last week, it had been a battle between space, and sea, but since both had stars, his mind had been fairly content to switch back and forth. This week, it was grey skies and boredom. Vincent’s mind didn’t wander the way it should, it went blank, his body carrying him through his duties without any real sense of time passing, no matter what the clock said, or how far down the list he got, everything was still dull and mindless. Soul sucking, sort of. 

Knowing he was sinking fast, and for no damn reason, Vincent threw himself back into physical exercise that night, reading or reciting equations, solving problems, reading worn paged manuals. He did it until he was barely able to make it to his tiny bed before falling over. The next day, more grey, and while not really the most talkative of people usually, even his coworkers in the crew made note of his lack of mental presence. Which was saying something. So, again, that night - he hit the books, and shaped the body. 

Nothing had been lost, Vincent told himself, there was no reason for the peculiar fog he felt like he was trapped in. Or the way he’d roll over in the night, and jerk awake, like he expected there to have been another body there that wasn’t. Nothing had been lost in the last weeks and days - nothing but his focus on the real goal of his life. The stars. Titan. Earth held only limited interest, it always had, it wasn’t a place he could ever belong, and didn’t really want to anyway even if he could have carved a place for himself on Terrafirma. 

Third Friday, another job, and then the next afternoon, another. Nothing but unworthy of note, just something to do, covering the loss in wages that his second, part-time aboveboard job had always paid in the past. Well, he got more phys training done, even noticed that his stomach was gaining tighter and finer definition. At this rate, so long as those couple of side-jobs with German continued to come in, Vincent may actually wind up with some legitimate looking muscle - all the better to pass as Valid when that time would come.

Falling asleep Thursday night, paltry flesh battered and pummeled by the paces he put it through, the thought forefront in his mind was - _If _the time would ever come to climb a ladder, masquerade as Valid, and finally, _finally_ reach the stars....it suddenly felt like it never would come. And the dangerous part was that Vincent wasn’t terrified of that thought like he should be, needed to be... He was just tired.__

__Buzzing intruded on foggy dreams that clung and didn’t let him wake up easily, but those dreams were also indistinct, not even leaving passing impressions. Carefully twisting in bed, Vincent glared squint eyed around his bedroom, hand fumbling for his glasses to hook them in place, but it was dark and nothing was to be seen. But the buzzing wouldn’t stop, it was that kind of repetitious frequency that would drive the most stoic to madness if they couldn’t find its source quickly enough to silence it._ _

__Hands scrabbling for light, the other in the vague direction he thought might hold that buzzing, thick envelope paper met his fingers, and Vincent stared down at what he held, trying to remember where he had gotten it. Except he was still groggy and tired and fucking hell the buzzing hadn’t been quieted yet, and drove him to tear clumsily into the envelope, bills falling like rain once the paper was ripped enough, but still where was that goddamned buzzing and -_ _

__“AH! FOUND YOU!” snarling at the object that had distorted the envelope’s shape. The prize was a watch, noisy, and Vincent pried at it this way and that, until the engraved watch face slid to the side before folding outwards, showing a miniscreen on the wristband and tiny dial pad on the back of the watch face. Poking it all a time or two - Vincent hadn’t ever known anybody with enough money for something like it, just saw the commercials once in awhile, didn’t really care about them anyway - and there was a sound of a dial picking up. Ruder than he ever was normally, he snapped, “What?”_ _

__“Ohhh, you’re not German, I thought I was trying to call German - wait,” slurred voice, but more than the accent, was the voice’s texture, its timber, and familiarity, all coming with a set of impossible sea glass and faded sky, or dark stormy sea green eyes. Eugene. “Wait - _Vincent_ yes-yes, that’s who I’m trying to reach. Speak up, will you? It’s rude to not say hello, ‘what’ isn’t really good manners.”_ _

__Rubbing his forehead, then one eye followed by the other, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Eugene? Really? What time is it -” looking around, spying his alarm clock, “god, it’s two in the morning, Eugene, you’re such a dick.”_ _

__“Don’t be that way, darling,” a deep slurp on something was heard, “you know better. Time’s relative, it’s just a made up thing, created by people to count down the days until they die, and maybe get scared about it or something. Which I’m not, it’s sort of all I do most days, doesn’t mean anything, just fills the moments. Except time doesn’t exist, so you should come out and we’ll build your sandcastle. I’ve got a box of spare buttons we could toss on it, too, if you like.”_ _

__Brain increasingly awake, Vincent grimaced, flopping to sit back down on his bed, “Oh man, you’re totally smashed, aren’t you?”_ _

__Denying, “No-no, not smashed, not at all, not even a little bit, and most certainly not totally. The car didn’t even run over me when it hit me, boom-ploop! Struck my legs, physics sent me up the bonnet, over the cabin roof, to bumpy roll off of the boot, and bam, right back on the asphalt. Trust me, I hadn’t a drop to drink that night, I was the soberest I’ve ever been in my life when I walked right in front of it. Sober enough to remember each and every sound, and all the little dents my useless body made in the metal. Maybe I wouldn’t remember if I had been drinking, ah well, I don’t really fancy trying that method of exit again. Too imprecise.”_ _

__Sighing, Vincent fell over to the side, having no idea what he was supposed to do with a drunken Eugene across town, in the middle of the night, and not even a damn taxi or bus to be found in his part of the city. “What do you want, Eugene?”_ _

__

__“To build a sandcastle,” promptly replying. “Like I said, come out, and we’ll go build you a sandcastle. I mean, I already dragged my crippled carcass to that bench, and that’s about as far as I can go for the moment. I’ll get my land legs back once I finish off this bottle, then I can make another push.”_ _

__“Eugene, don’t do that -”_ _

__“Actually, it’s Jerome, I think I told you that, but I don’t think I can be him ever again, right? Jerome isn’t a crippled drunk banished completely from every aspect of the only world he knew, right? Jerome isn’t me anymore, so yes-yes, I do suppose I’m Eugene then, aren’t I?” meandering and oversharing - holy hell the man must be so wasted his blood had to be mostly alcohol, otherwise there wouldn’t be this lack of self-control or, or...or really, anything that wasn’t intentionally said. This was a different kind of personal than the anger that Friday night about perfection, this was...this was bad. “You seemed to not mind Eugene too much, right? Or was that kindness, because, you-you truly are bizarre, Vincent. People aren’t kind unless they want something, and you said you...oh damn it all, what did you say you -”_ _

__Forearm draped over forehead, holding the mobile-watch-phone near his mouth, “I said I wanted you, Eugene. God you’re not doing so good, are ya?” Resigned, Vincent knew he’d have to find a way out there, “Do me a favour, stay right where you are, don’t go to the beach.”_ _

__“On the bench, of course, do you know the tip of your ears turn pink when you blush?” grunting, shifting, and a soft curse then the click-snapping of lighter and the distinct sound of a cigarette being puffed on like it was going out of style. “I did remember to bring a blanket, so we wouldn’t get completely soaked when making your silly sandcastle.”_ _

__Dressing awkwardly one handed now that his decision was made, Vincent admonished, “Stay, right, there, Eugene. I want you there. It’ll take me awhile, I’m pretty much on the opposite end of the city, so you -”_ _

__“You still do? You really are that sweet, aren’t you?” sounding confused and almost hurt by that thought. “I don’t know how you’ve managed that, reality likes to grind up whatever’s worthwhile in the world, since there’s not enough to go around and share with the class, life just opts to get rid of the rare true things.”_ _

__Gathering a couple changes of clothes, shoving them into his backpack, Vincent cast an eye over his work uniform, and crammed that in too. “Eugene, I’m gonna hafta hang up for a bit, promise I’ll be there fast as I can, so don’t gimme too hard a time, okay? When I get there, I want you to be on that bench, you got that?”_ _

__“Of course, darling, it’s only you who wants me, nobody else does, they just want things or stuff, or something of that nature, so they can fuck off and leave me be, but you-you, you’re easy to please I guess, and I’ll wait right here,” promising. “Be careful, though, the bad ends of town aren’t fit for people like you, real ones, dreamers, and such...”_ _

__“Yeah, I got it,” not telling him that the worry, while nice he supposed, was unnecessary - Vincent had lived in really bad areas before, and gotten on just fine._ _

__XXX_ _

__He could have called German, had considered it, then discarded the thought - this wasn’t any kind of business. Besides, when he had left Eugene’s, Vincent had found himself not wanting to take the envelope, and definitely not the cash German had given him on the way back into town. Felt like taking something undeserved. But he took it, both the money German gave him, which got used to pay bills, and the envelope had been shoved somewhere on the bookshelf in his bedroom, something he wanted to forget._ _

__He could have hailed one of the higher end cabs that idled around the underground clubs, the bars and dives and dancehalls that everyone knew existed, but didn’t discuss openly - but in jeans, a tshirt covered up by a surf shirt, wasn’t the sort of passenger those mooks would like accepting. They wouldn’t believe him legit, unless he showed his money, but if he showed his money, well, some of those cabbies weren’t above armed mugging of a passenger, especially one that looked so unimportant to the world that nobody would miss him. Neither of those choices were really viable, so it was shank’s mare, and Vincent jogged the blocks, using alleys when he could, because there were always cops patrolling the lit streets, and he didn’t have the patience to deal with being stopped._ _

__Making for one of the more open, normal, taxi cab loitering spots after an hour of jogging that made his chest hurt, his lungs burn, but only because the city air had so much smog, plus, that spider laying in wait that was his heart defect. Running hands over his hair, his shirts, hoping he looked like some regular kid caught out later at night than he’d meant to be, and just wanted to go home real bad, he walked up to the taxi at the front of the line of six that were manned, up and running for service. The hard bitten woman had stared at hi, measuring, noticing the glasses, and knowing what one and all did - it meant he was an (in)Valid, but sometimes, well, they got born to decent families anyway she seemed to figure._ _

__Casting her a tight, shy, worried smile, “Yeah, uh, came visitin’ my brother, and he’s so far out from the city, that I got bored, you know how it is? Th-thought I’d have a look around, but this sure ain’t Kansas, right? Ma’am, I’d really just like to get back to my brother’s,” fiddling with the timepiece Eugene had given him, because just like the glasses meaning (in)Valid, a piece of tech like what was on his wrist, meant good money. Plus lots of kids dressed sloppy like he was, it was their way of acting rebellious, didn’t mean anything._ _

__“Alright, sweetheart,” frowning one last time, then shrugging. “You sit tight, I’ll get you to your brother’s place.” Disapproving, muttering, “Can’t believe your mama let a kid like you into the concrete jungle, what was she thinkin’?”_ _

__

__Throwing her a winsome beam, “Same thing she thought when she found out she was pregnant with me - it’s in God’s hands. She’s really old fashioned ‘bout some things, but, she’s Mom!”_ _

__Snorting, “You’re the cutest thing, (in)Valid or not, aren’t you? Settle back, sweetie, nobody’s gonna mess with you when you’re in Carol’s taxi.”_ _

__True to her word, she was fast, and knew where all the speed traps were that could have gotten them pulled over so slowed down before there was any spot of trouble. Vincent gave her a hefty tip, taking the business card she offered him along with another few admonishments to be careful in the city, people weren’t like where he came from - and watched her tail lights recede before heading briskly towards the viewing cliff._ _

__Eugene was upright, there was that, he also had wrapped a plaid blanket around himself, making an odd tent around his shoulders. Eugene was also so drunk that rightfully, he should be in a hospital. Or so Vincent was certain, because there were two completely empty fifths of whiskey perched on the free portion of the bench. Nobody had a liver that could process that much alcohol in a reasonable amount of time and maintain any chance of survival._ _

__Lower jaw rolling and jutting forward on a drunken smile, “There you are, darling. I was just thinking of you, wondering how you were, what you had gotten up to.” Sluggishly trying to shift free or make space with the blanket, “Here-here, it’s chilly out tonight, you Yanks haven’t got the blood to deal with stupid weather that’s always damp and gets all in your bones, like the English are. Not all of it’s awful, mind, but - what is it?”_ _

__Vincent, squatting in front of him, hands in his hair, tugging it, frustrated and worried, “Did you drink all that shit?”_ _

__“What shit?” leaning forward, then revealed a glass that had been tucked into his other hand, and began to raise it for a sip. “I don’t drink shit, probably tastes dreadful. Wine and beer when company’s over, but for the rest of the time,” shaking the glass, a weak smile tightening his features, “it’s the sort of stuff meant to help a body forget everything, and help speed things up on the family wish list - chiefly, removal of the bad flesh and mistake they had created.” Laughing, it had a crazed, broken edge to it, “Problem, just one problem, with that, they designed me to be a pointlessly tough thing. I’ve downed three bottles in an afternoon, and just had a bit of stomach upset the next morning. Once I even tried it with a few pills, see what that might do, just a nasty hangover, puked for a few days...” Blinking owlishly at him, hand reaching out towards his face, “Vincent? Good god, darling, are you alright? You’re crying.”_ _

__That was the breaking point, and Vincent leaned up, wrapping arms around the other man, squeezing, “You stupid fucking jackass, you had me so fuckin’ worried, and you’re - ugh!” Squeezing him again, then shoving him back, shaking him by the shoulders, “You don’t do this again. I don’t care what kind of liver you’ve got, or what you tried out before, you don’t do this again. It’s not right.”_ _

__Green eyes going soft, “Sentimental tit. Of course it’s right, it’s one of the only acceptable ways a gentleman of standing is allowed to die once disgraced - a wastrel drowning in whatever vice he can get that’s old fashioned. Otherwise, I would’ve gotten a shotgun, this is America, land of the right to bear arms. Drugs are gauche, also unacceptable. Jumping off of something, that’s for women. Car wreck, did try that, saw how that worked, didn’t we? Hanging’s too low class or for adulterers, which I’m neither. Doesn’t leave a man much, now does it, Vincent? I’m useless to everyone, even me, so at least I should have the decency to go out in a manner that doesn’t embarrass my family more.” Hot hands that were about as unsteady as Vincent would expect them to be, brushed over his cheeks, “You silly, innocent boy, tears aren’t going to do any good, and should be saved for better directions.”_ _

__“Givin’ me a hard time, Eugene,” grimacing, he shifted to stand, searching one handed under the blanket Eugene had around him, trying to find the canes since the wheelchair would be out in the open and obvious. “Alright, where are they?”_ _

__“They?”_ _

__Struggling to not be too angry or exasperated, the man was drunk as a skunk, fatalistic, and clearly those ongoing jokes from their shared weekend, were a permanent theme pointing to a lack of will to live. “Your canes, I don’t wanna leave them out here, as is, I’m gonna hafta carry you.”_ _

__Puffing air out his lips in disgust and dismissal, “Never brought them. I made my body do what it was told for once, and walked. Been awhile since I managed to get this far. After the graft, they told me to go slow, I told them to bugger off, and give me steroids, they did, and I went too hard, too fast, and now I can’t walk five steps with any kind of normal ability.” A triumphant gleam entered his eye, slumped shoulders squared, “But I bloody well made my body do as it was told, properly, and got this far. Screw the doctors saying I’d damaged the graft too far to hope for more improvement. Screw them, let them all _rot_.”_ _

__Seemed he was done, the strength seeping away like spilled water from a glass, and Eugene appeared to sink in on himself. Vincent tucked the blanket around him firmly, “Yeah, I hear ya. It’s time to go inside, Eugene, you okay with that? Not gonna fight me? I’m gonna hafta pick you up and carry you, so it’ll be hard for me to catch myself if you do somethin’ to mess with that.”_ _

__“I won’t give you a hard time,” agreeing wearily, looking away, any life gone ashen and grey._ _

__Eugene wasn’t a heavy man, and he wasn’t a light man. The weight wasn’t distributed the way Vincent expected with others, probably because, while Eugene’s legs still had muscle mass, they were unable to maintain any of the concentration and volume of the former swimmer’s upper body. It took a bit of shifting until he was comfortable with the hold, Eugene bundled up in his arms, docile, making no move, other than an arm coming to wrap around Vincent’s shoulders. Since it was comfortable, and didn’t mess with his carry, he didn’t say anything._ _

__Inside, the condo stank of pack after pack of chain smoked cigarette, and there were more empty bottles of liquor laying around every flat surface in the lower half of the condo, than Vincent could let himself look at. If he did, he would start yelling, and that would get no results whatsoever. A glance showed that the only dishes in the sink were glasses, which shouldn’t be surprising, and there didn’t seem to be any evidence of meals eaten - Eugene had been on a liquid diet for longer than should be feasible for the human body to handle. Starting where he could, loading the dishwasher while the bath ran, all while Eugene sat, bundled up, on one of the reclining chairs watching him through bloodshot eyes._ _

__Miraculously, a clean glass was found, probably because it was up on a high shelf that Eugene might have overlooked easily, and he filled it with water, and took it to him, “You gotta have something that’s not alcohol in you.”_ _

__Sighing, eyes closing, Eugene accepted it, and with terrifying ease, drank it down in one go, just like he had that white wine Vincent had hated. They stared at one another for a minute, and Eugene asked, “Why did you come?”_ _

__“Tonight? Because you called and you needed someone to,” shrugging, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If anybody had called me, and was like that, I would’ve done something to help them, contacted somebody if they weren’t near me. Guess it’s not in me to ignore that sort of thing. But it was you who called, so, I came, fast as I could. Was hopin’ that you were just really drunk, being dumb, but not in any kind of bad state - still wasn’t gonna not come if that were the case. But...this,” head tilting to take in the condo, “this is a lot more than a night’s too many drinks and being stupid. This is bad, and I’m not leaving you like this.”_ _

__The bath sounded fairly full, so he didn’t wait Eugene out for more questions, “Alright, let’s get on to the next thing, yeah?” Scooping him up, he apologized, “You know, it’s not that I think you can’t do this on your own, right? It’s just, I’m here, and I wanna help when you need it, and you need it right now. And that’s not a bad thing to need help, or want it, or accept it.”_ _

__There was no reply, except the cheek laid against his shoulder, quietly accepting what was generally shunned before it could even be hinted at._ _

__All the rest of the night, Vincent worked on picking up, cleaning up, getting water into Eugene if he hadn’t dozed off again, which he did frequently. Sunlight was pouring through the windows upstairs, when Vincent knew he was going to have to call in to work. He hadn’t ever done it, not with this cleaning firm, because they had a harsh policy about not being at work, on time, every scheduled day, without fail. It wasn’t the pay that kept Vincent dedicated to that firm, it was the fact that it served the space corporation Gattaca, and it was the closest to his intended fulfillment of his dreams as he had access to until German could turn up a ladder for him._ _

__It didn’t take much, surprisingly, his supervisor gruffly told him that everybody had already noticed he wasn’t feeling himself the last few weeks, and were wondering when whatever was ailing him would catch up. Accepting the order that he would have to be there Monday morning, or have his pay docked, and his position precarious with a writeup, Vincent hung up with a heavy, relieved sigh, sinking back into the seat beside Eugene on the couch he had moved to after the bath Vincent had helped him with earlier on that night._ _

__“You weren’t feeling well the last few weeks?” Eugene was frowning, having obviously overheard all of the conversation, his skin yellow hued with the remaining toxins that would take even his superlative body more time to process out. Bruised circles under pale green eyes, and the full mouth was trying to tug in a scowl. “Is it your heart? Or something else?”_ _

__Licking his lip, Vincent looked away, “Just didn’t feel great. Heart’s the same as usual, nothin’ else, haven’t even gotten a cold in years, weak immune system or not. Probably all the germ exposure at work, inoculated me or somethin’.”_ _

__Sharply, “Don’t you lie to me, what’s wrong?”_ _

__Incredulous, jaw dropping, “Oh-ho-ho, yeah, no, you don’t call that sort of thing, not right now, not after your one man speakeasy party. Getting blind drunk was why you canceled on German the last two weekends, I bet, how’s that -”_ _

__“I didn’t want you here,” came the answer that stabbed Vincent surprisingly in the gut with a nasty wrenching pain. “It’s too comfortable with you here, so, I didn’t want you to come, otherwise I’d like having you around too much.”_ _

__Alright, the first part of that answer hurt, but the rest of it was messed up, even if it made an ugly sort of sense. “Why’d you stuff the cell-watch in with the personal payment?” Not what he meant to ask, but..._ _

__“Spur of the moment,” defensively, denying, looking away. “Figured you might pawn it, or possibly keep it as a fancy memento or trophy for a first job, something of that nature.”_ _

__“And you called it, why?” prodding, leaning towards him, honestly curious._ _

__Lips tightening, “Haven’t the foggiest.”_ _

__“Bullshit.”_ _

__“Whatever, fine,” head thunking on the headrest, “if the memory of the last two weeks is to be believed, I thought it would be nice to hear the voice of someone who I could pretend wanted me for a little while. It’s a great deal more pleasant than the customary reaction I really inspire in others.”_ _

__“If I didn’t pick up, you’d still be out there, wouldn’t you? Sort of a longshot to reach me.”_ _

__The glance rolled his way was sour, “Your point is...? Your point is pointless, Vincent. It would’ve been mostly the same to me in that state. Babbling like a buffoon with nothing but constant ringing or dial tone, or actually getting a hold of you.” Tilting his body towards him, “My turn - what’s been ailing you so much that it makes your co-workers worry?”_ _

__Waving a hand, “Everything was just...sorta grey, I guess. Drifted through work, through the day. Usually my head’s anywhere, everywhere, but work, except I still know I’m at work, still notice people, still talk, all that. At night, couldn’t sleep right, my books didn’t make me dream about the stars, about other planets, moons, just grey, bored, constantly bored. Food tastes kinda weird, I suppose, just,” shrugging, “nothing seemed real anymore, worthwhile. Not even my dreams. Just tired, real tired.”_ _

__More alert than he had seemed thus far all night - well, now, early morning, “And your friends didn’t notice? Say anything? They just...let you...go through that, alone?”_ _

__“Friends?” barking out a surprised laugh, “Eugene, I haven’t had anyone be my friend since I can remember. There’s folks I’m nice to, who’re polite to me, and I can carry a conversation with, but nobody I really know, or who knows me. No real friends, just sort of friends, work friends, contacts for other work...”_ _

__“And you’ve been calling me stupid,” dryly. “You’ve been lonely and depressed, Vincent, life without any ties or relationships finally caught up, and you didn’t recognize it for what it was.” Following up before Vincent could do more than grunt, “You were fine when I last saw you - oh. Well that’s dreadfully awkward, isn’t it? The one person who feels sort of like a friend to you, is doing his damndest to kill himself via alcohol poisoning. No wonder you’re so mad at me. Fuck, I’d be mad at me too, maybe even livid, certainly disgusted. Honestly, in that case, I’m amazed at your restraint, no riot acts read, no things thrown to get your point across...”_ _

__Sighing, “Told you to ditch that word. Not disgusted by you. Really angry at you, really pissed off that you’re doing this shit to yourself, and _no_ not just because I kind of like being around you even though you’re a complete and utter jackass sometimes.” Rubbing his hands over his face, “And right now, I’m so goddamned tired, that I’m calling time out, and if I have to throw you over my shoulder then tie you to your bed to keep you from getting into trouble for a few hours while I sleep, I’ll do it, fair warning on that.”_ _

__“Kinky, but not my style,” shrugging. Raising an arm up, “Come on then, carry me off to the boudoir dear, like the strapping wild man from the rebel colony that you are. I’ll even let you use me for a body pillow to keep me in place, complete with rights to drool all over in your sleep as much as you like.”_ _

__A little bit of maneuvering in the bed once they got there, and Vincent curled around Eugene’s side, ear over hair chest, sent down to sleep with the sound of the metronome rhythm of his heart beating._ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I can no longer fool myself by saying that each chapter is an ok ending point if I don't continue the story further... Aie. Also, two supremely warped individuals with few interpersonal skills makes for some seriously dumb arguments and confusion between them time to time, wish it weren't so, but some of it is things that the two of them need to air out, I suppose as their time together progresses. (Hopefully it's clear enough that there's frequently spans of other weekends between the scenes. Otherwise, I fubar'd, and should go back to make it clearer case by case.)

Vincent was hesitant about doing too much, it was all around a strange situation. He wasn’t anyone’s servant, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to act like one for Eugene, but he did the bulk of the tidying up anyway since it needed doing. At least Eugene swiftly followed suit after a lengthy, inscrutable look. The Brit still looked like death warmed over, just less so with each passing hour, and by the time afternoon rolled around, sitting at a desk in one of the other rooms downstairs, he could be heard calling orders for delivery of groceries, refills on anything that was low, similar stuff to that, normal, day to day necessities that had been ignored too long.

Making himself comfortable on the black leather upholstered couch, one of Eugene’s hundreds of books in hand, Vincent just took some time to relax. The pages released vanilla and soft buttery leather scent as he cradled the leather bound volume in hand, the words ingested page by page. The quiet filling those moments was probably the most comfortable Vincent had felt forever it seemed like. 

“Darling, really?” Eugene’s voice interrupted him, along with falling shadow as he wheeled up beside him. “Faustus? It’s dreadfully moralistic in its excesses.”

Not looking up from his place on the page, “This’s a different version than the one I picked up at the library. Not as censored.”

“Better not be,” grousing, “it’s an antique. Next you’ll be wanting Shakespeare or something. If feeling salacious, I’d be happy to hand over some of the de Sade writings, except they’re in French, and I rather doubt you can read French.”

Finally glancing at Eugene who was leaning forward and staring at him curiously, “You’ll just have to translate then, I guess. You look like you’re feelin’ better, almost all piss and vinegar filling in a spun sugar shell.”

“‘Piss and vinegar in a spun sugar shell’? _Well_ , no wonder I have to pay for company,” huffy and rolling eyes, hands waving it off. “Speaking of which, I suppose I should call German and let him know this weekend is already taken care of, shouldn’t I?”

Frowning, Vincent sat up, setting the book aside, “He’s not how I got here. Or why I’m here.”

Uncomfortable shifting, Eugene rubbed his full mouth, looking away, “Of course not. But you’re here, so may as well -”

“You really are a dick,” exasperated, Vincent reached out, giving Eugene’s knee a gentle shove. “If you want me here, there’s no rule that says it’s gotta be like that. No payment required, Eugene, unless you wanna play chess and not get your ass handed to you - then you may have to bribe me to lose.”

“That sounds like a challenge, that’s a challenge, isn’t it? You’re actually challenging me to a game of chess? Really?” Eugene scoffed, mock offended. “I do hope you know that it’s your ass that’s going to be handed about,” tapping the armrest, “it’ll be you stuck in this chair all day, don’t you doubt it.” Waggling a finger, “Just for that, no kiss for you when you lose.”

Laughing at him, “Yeah-yeah, like I said, you really are a dick, Eugene, no two ways about it.”

“Good thing you seem to like dick then, isn’t it?” dryly. “Otherwise you’d spend your time on someone more rewarding.”

Vincent shook his head getting up far enough to lean in and kiss Eugene on that mouth that said stupid things too often. Breaking off as Eugene stared taken aback, “Wasn’t looking for any reward, jackass. Don’t care about it. If you feel like you hafta call German, do that, but not on account of me expecting anythin’ to do with it. You called, I’m here, you want me to go, I leave. Nothing else to it.”

“Stay,” the whisper was dragged free awkwardly. “Stay then, just leave before you’re trapped here.”

Teasing, “Gonna put me in a pretty little cage, and maybe tag me with a collar? Wonder how you’ll manage that, think I can probably outrun ya, unless you start off with the wheels right off the bat.”

Recoiling, horrified, Eugene sat straighter in his wheelchair, blood draining from his features, “Good god Vincent! You’re a man, a person, n-not- _not_ some...some animal to be kept caged, and, just - tagged and leashed! Such a thing’s unconscionable!”

Surprised at the over the top reaction, Vincent soothed, “Hey-hey, not sayin’ you’re into that, but it takes all kinds in the world, right? Some people do that sorta thing, you hear stuff out in the world, and it’s silly to think it’s all bad. Sin is in, and always will be, like the saying goes.” Reassuring, “I was just playin’, Eugene.”

XXX

When Vincent left early Monday morning from Eugene’s, a taxi taking him to work, he felt better. Yeah, he’d heard the Englishman call German, make some sort of arrangement or other, but he hadn’t been paying attention to the particulars. It was lunchtime that let him know something was different. Mainly because when he went to nab his wallet from his backpack in the locker so he could buy something from the canteen, Vincent found there had been a prepacked lunch neatly stuffed into the same pouch as his wallet in the heavy canvas bag. The lunch had been pretty good - leftover roast beef, greens and other vegetables layered and all that, even a container of fresh salad and another of fruit. When he’d brought that to the shared table with some of his coworkers, he’d received a bit of ribbing. Lots of elbowing and knowing looks, comments of ‘you lucky dog’ were thrown about. 

It was a thoughtful gesture, but it was just a sack lunch. Nothing weird about that beyond the quality of the contents. If the positions were reversed, of course Vincent would send Eugene off with lunch prepared. What he wouldn’t do, is tuck an envelope of money at the very bottom of the backpack, as Eugene had done - Vincent found that particular bonus when he got home that night.

The rest of the week after that, was good, nice and normal. 

Thursday night, he did call Eugene to check on him, and the man was clearly trashed but not dangerously so. 

Sitting next to his telescope, staring through the port, “Man, the cloud cover’s thick tonight. Y’know, Saturday there’s supposed to be a meteor shower.”

“What is it with you and the stars, Vincent? You’re always talking about the sky, the stars, the planets,” Eugene asked, it sounded genuinely curious, not judgemental, not aggravated the way some would be. “Didn’t you say you could use celestial navigation? That’s a very outdated skill, you know.”

“Oh yeah, I know,” humming, Vincent adjusted his telescope, trying to get a better look at Venus through the haze of light the city shed. “You know, when the first astronauts were returnin’ to earth, they had to calculate on the fly and with just a wrist watch their re-entry to atmo. Fuck, by every right they should’ve failed. Again an’ again, and man tried, reachin’ for the heavens, the stars so far out of reach. If they hadn’t been geniuses of a different order, if they hadn’t been the kinda men they were, knowin’ the things they did, no matter what instruments and modern tech was supposed to be there to help ‘um - they’d have died. Burnt up extra crispy. And they weren’t Valids, just some decently healthy dudes who knew math, physics, and the stars.”

“You sound like you wish you were there,” Eugene took an audible swig, sighed, “like you think you could do what they did.”

Grunting, Vincent straightened up, scratching fingers through his hair, talking into the held up wrist-cell, “Who says I couldn’t do what they did, huh? You think they were genesequenced? Yeah, they were in peak health for the time, pilots and shit, but Eugene - they were plain old fashioned guys, the way nature made’um. And they achieved what should’ve been impossible. History’s full’a people like that. I think people rely upon genesequencing too much, I mean, it’s not a bad thing, right? To make sure babies are healthy and have lots of raw material for good stuff...but -” puffing his cheeks out, “but there’s no gene for fate. There’s no gene for happenstance, luck, for willpower. There’s no gene that controls chance, the odds and the world around a person. People go, oh hey, genesequencing and perfection, like it’s everything. It forgets that no matter how perfected a person’s genes are, they’re still a person. One with their own thoughts, feelings, needs, desires. Their own weaknesses, too, y’know? What they love, what they hate, what they need, what they can do without...” 

“Jerome Morrow wasn’t made for second place, and even with all that going for me, I’m still second place,” Eugene muttered, agreeing and defeated in one, a tired bitterness seeping out, exhausted and faded, the bitterness a washed out, dreary, grey thing. “There’s no excuse for my failures, and yet, here I sit, a failure, yes, of course...you’re right. No matter what my DNA dictated, I’m ruled by my human frailty and happenstance, or fate as you say.”

Figuring he wasn’t going to get a decent look at the sky tonight anyway, Vincent puttered around turning off lights, putting a few things out for breakfast tomorrow, checking his fridge and all that. “Eugene, that’s not what I meant. Y’know, I don’t think you’re a failure.” Eugene scoffed, but Vincent continued, “You survived. I know - shut up, don’t start off on that bit where you were tryin’ to off yourself - I know you’re _intent_ wasn’t to survive, but you _did_. That wasn’t just your body and the docs, Eugene. That was you. Ain’t you ever read the stuff about how folks with minor injuries can die because they just give up? And how ones that shouldn’t survive, do, because they didn’t give up? I mean, okay, sure, not fail proof on either side, but you can’t tell me and be truthful, that there weren’t times when you could’ve finished the job, either by givin’ up or doin’ one little thing or other to make it permanent.”

Long silence, before the answer was dragged free, petulant, “I got scared.” More forceful, “Goddammit, I got scared, fine. I was scared, I was scared, Vincent, and I didn’t know what to do anymore!” Glass shattered, “Goddammit, why do I talk to you this way?! You’re-you’re just supposed to come, distract me from misery for a bit, and _go away_ and not leave any impression! Goddamn you!”

Vincent was startled by that, he figured the getting scared bit, though he’d thought it was more of a stubbornness, or anger, having gotten the better of Eugene and making him tough out the dicey period right after breaking his back. Undressing for the night quickly, he flopped in his bed, alarm set with a practiced touch, before taking off his glasses, “Yeah, well, you were supposed to be a temp job and yeah, I’d told German I had only wanted one nighters or whatever originally, but he needed me that night, and dropped me off at your door, and...so what? You’re one of the few people I actually like talkin’ with. You listen, but you talk, too.” Softer, admitting, “Nobody’s ever listened the way you do, I’ve never had anyone to talk to the way I can talk to you. I told you, I’ve never had a real friend, and whatever you wanna call this, for me, it’s the closest I’ve ever had. There’s been those I call friends, like I told you, but they’re all easily forgotten, never had anythin’ in common with them, not really. Nothin’ to really, truly talk about with.”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” the sigh was heaved. “I don’t want to be anyone’s friend. I’m not very good at it. And friends do that irritating thing where they actually care, or at least pretend to, I suppose if I’m having to be honest. Look at all the friends I had as Jerome Morrow - not a damn one of them cares anymore, of course. Just lots of disgust, ‘oh my look how far he’s fallen, Good God is he drunk again? Can he even wipe his own ass like that? Kill me if I ever become _that_ helpless, ugh, why didn’t they put him down like a lame horse for pity’s sake! Paaa-thetic...’ I don’t want any of that.”

“Hey, I’m no expert, but those, those don’t sound like friends, Eugene, those sound like parasites,” Vincent grunted. Rubbing his face, “Tomorrow’s early, and I do gotta go to work before German comes to pick me up, then I gotta get decent for comin’ over - shower, shave, you -”

“You needn’t go so overboard, Vincent,” sighing. “Not on my account. It’s not like we’re going anywhere -” pausing, “unless you can drive? Or would like to go out somewhere?”

Snorting on a chuckle, “Don’t know anywhere really other than places I used to work, and they don’t let (in)Valids in the front door.”

Sternly, “They will if they know what’s good for them. But, if you like jazz, there’s a place I’ve been known to go to with some regularity... The only thing they care about is the colour of your money and if you can fit the dress code. Discreet place...some private rooms for poker or a bit of gambling, periodic burlesque shows in the more select and secluded stage downstairs... But the main hall has jazz and blues, screened tables, a decent menu, and the wine’s not atrocious...”

Sounded bit upmarket for Vincent, but Eugene seemed hot on the idea, “Yeah, sure, sounds nice. Hopefully I can get whatever monkey suit German brings to fit well enough so I’m not an embarrassment. If we don’t go on Friday though, you may hafta help me with my hair, do whatever that thing is you do to yours so I don’t look too awfully outta place, and if I hang onto one of the handles on the back of your wheelchair, I can even walk in without wearin’ the (in)Valid announcement sign front and center.”

“Then I suppose I have my task for tomorrow, while you do your gainfully employed bit,” Eugene mused. “And I’m certain I’ve something that would fit better than whatever German brings, ah-hmn, yes, let me check -” wheels squeaked and there was the sound of drawers and hangers, “yes, there it is. Shoes though, those boots you wore last time would work.”

Vincent listened sleepily to Eugene’s muttering for several more minutes, before finally saying, “Man, it’s not that I don’t wanna keep listening to you -” and fuck, he did want to keep listening, even when the man said terrible things, heartbreaking things, Vincent could listen to the sound of that dulcet voice cascading over every word in the English language, and a dozen other languages besides probably, “Eugene, but I’ve gotta get some shuteye, or I’ll be fallin’ asleep at the table tomorrow.”

“Wha-oh, yes,” the half-excited, half absent-minded, and all around tipsy meandering words that went from bad to good to mediocre and back, locked back onto the fact that they were talking on the phone, “you get some rest. An-and if you like we could watch the meteor shower on Saturday if you’ll lend me a hand in getting out that far. We’ll just make certain to be back in time for it.”

Falling asleep, Vincent realized Eugene hadn’t said quite why he didn’t want to be _his_ friend. Though, it was fairly obvious to him why - the friends Eugene had had in the past showed that they weren’t friends. And Eugene didn’t want to be hurt like that again. Easy to understand that, to be spoken of, treated like, that... Vincent had grown up with that sort of derision directed his way, so he was used to it. Yeah, there were days he wanted to be angry and bitter, but he’d found that it was much easier to live his life not feeling that way, not giving others that much more say and power in his life. Eugene didn’t have that sort of experience, so crashing hard had only resulted in bitterness and pain and anguish. Maybe one day the other man would be able to let it go enough to actually live the life he had, Vincent hoped so, there had to be something worth living for, for Eugene beyond what once was, and now wasn’t anymore. 

He also realized that he had yet again side-stepped Eugene’s question as to why the heavens were so important...Vincent didn’t know why he continued to do that, but it was what it was.

XXX

“Y’know, if I’m supposed to get us back to your place, you should probably stop ordering me wine to try,” Vincent laughed good-naturedly after the server had come by with a fifth glass.

Fussing, “Yes but you didn’t like the first four, and I finished them off. You only drank half of each glass -”

“Yeah-yeah, to give each one an honest chance,” chuckling, Vincent leaned back in the plush velvet backed chair, popping a garlic stuffed olive into his mouth. “And I’m only doin’ that, because you keep tellin’ me wine’s in your blood and that there’s got to be some kind that I liked.” Rotating the wine glass by its stem, “Y’know, I think you’re right ‘bout it bein’ in your blood, Eugene. You probably bleed wine by this point.”

“Well, I’ll have you know, I piss vodka, whiskey, rye, brandy, or bourbon during the week, so it’s on account of wanting to be decent company that I downgrade to bleeding wine over the weekend,” with complete seriousness, chin lifting, the picture of sweet propriety and innocence. It was quickly ruined by his signature half grin, “With you around, a man’s got to maintain some grip upon his wits, or who knows what might happen? Might even make an ass of myself and think I can still dance!” 

Vincent could tell the other man was impatient for him to try the newest selected wine, for all the joking, pale green eyes continued to slide to the wineglass he continued fiddling with. Letting it go on purpose, he tried another one of the small dishes that had been brought out. Eugene was hellbent on going down the list of opened bottles of wine on the roster for the jazz club’s rather long list of offers, in hopes of finding something Vincent actually liked. (Vincent didn’t hold out hope, most of the wines were too sour-bitter or harsh, he could - with a very, very tiny sip at a time - see the appeal of some of them, but with four glasses already brought out tonight, and then the ones Eugene had pulled out from his own stores during meals at the other man’s abode... That was a lot of wine, and none of it to his liking.) But, with the quest for a palatable wine, there came the requirement of many small appetizer sized plates of various foods that the Englishman swore were meant to compliment whatever wines were brought. He claimed that in Spain they did something similar, called it _tapas_ , meaning ‘tops’, and that it was somewhat similar to Italian _antipasto_ , but while the Italian thing was meant to be h'orderves or appetizers, _tapas_ could qualify for a meal depending upon how many dishes were ordered.

He had to admit, he liked the _tapas_ bit, it was the wine he could do without.

Lips pursing, shoved outward, brows drawing down, “Oh do stop faffing around with the garlic shrimp and try the wine before I come over there and pry your mouth open to pour it down the hatch!”

Unable to help the laugh, it was boisterous, head thrown back, forgetting that they were in public, and only, after he opened his eyes, remembering that it wasn’t at the condo, he was grateful that the place was such that nobody seemed to care or notice. There was enough ambient noise, and dinners were focused on one another, that his outburst wasn’t noted. Sheepishly, Vincent rubbed the bridge of his nose, about to apologize as his gaze swung back towards Eugene, to catch the Valid’s expression which was...wasn’t something he could describe. Surprised a little? Soft? The full lips were parted, chin up, yet face forward - and with a blink it was all gone, and Vincent didn’t know what it was he had seen. It had been nice, however, not upset, no recrimination or embarrassment for public misbehaviour.

Seeking to cover his own reaction to that expression, his own confusion, Vincent plucked up the glass that had been the subject of teasing debate, and took a shallow sip. He’d learned the hard way that if he went for a full mouthful initially, he’d be hard pressed to not spit it back out. So, sip first. Hold it a few seconds, try not to wince, swallow, follow up with some water, then try a bigger sip - that was the routine he’d established. However, the sip was smooth, mellow. Still very strong to his tastebuds, but not...not destructively so like the others had been. 

“Huh,” holding the glass back to stare at it, shrugging, he took a second, slightly larger sip. Licking his teeth, the roof of his mouth, Vincent admitted, “Alright, that doesn’t make me wanna wash my mouth out with soap.” Reaching for the winecard Eugene had been going down, “What is it?”

Eugene glanced down, and then set the card just out of reach, “ _Sierra de Malaga_ , a red wine from southern Spain. Honestly, I’m surprised they even stocked - oh, right.” A self-deprecating laugh, “I forgot, most of the wines on this list from that area, were imported because I threw a hissyfit a few years ago. Bloody hell, to think they still have bottles left, can’t imagine it’s that popular with the locals. Hmn,” the winecard was scanned again, “perhaps for dessert you’d be willing to humour me by trying one of the ice wines from the region. Hopefully they know how to serve the bloody stuff, though...”

Turned out, they didn’t know how to serve it, but Eugene was fast to school them on it. And also, because the wines selected weren’t popular, serving one glass at a time for the ones Eugene wanted to order beyond that first red one that Vincent liked, required them outright buying the whole bottle. Vincent did his best to not wince, not wonder at the prohibitive costs, but Eugene simply told them to box up the bottles he wanted, and they would drink them ‘in a place that suitably respects the vintage’, whatever the hell that meant. 

Driving Eugene’s 2019 Corvette Stingray took special attention, not because he couldn’t drive, but because the car was one of those things that was worth more than his life, and he didn’t want to risk even the tiniest of errors. Plus, he had drank three full glasses of that red wine, and there was also the four half-glasses, which - wait, that added up to two full glasses, making for _five_ full glasses of wine overall, and Vincent wouldn’t describe himself as tipsy, but he was more intoxicated than he’d ever been while behind the wheel before. And that meant extra caution. 

Beside him, Eugene had rolled down the window, a hand coasting through the wind generated by the drive, humming some song that Vincent didn’t recognize. At a red light, the Englishman leaned over, closer, wine sweet on his breath where it landed on Vincent’s neck, the sharp round of chin digging into the top of his shoulder, “You needn’t drive like someone’s grandmum, Vincent, it’s just a car.”

“Yeah, well,” gathering his patience, Vincent suppressed a shiver at the hand that suddenly appeared rubbing up and down the inside of his thigh, and the mild aggravation that Eugene was distracting him while he was trying to operate heavy machinery, “I’m not that great a driver. Not alotta practice, and I’d like us to get back to your place in one piece, preferably with the car intact, too.” Adding, “Besides, to you, it’s just a car, but it’s also an asset, and y’know, I dunno what you do for a living, so, I’d rather not risk damaging a potentially difficult to replace thing -”

“There was a huge settlement from the car wreck,” heaving a put upon sigh, pulling away. “Plus there was my trust fund. I thought about squandering it all on booze and the like, but turns out my stupid finance degree that I got while doing the sports was good for something - reminding me of basic realities. So, I used every remaining cent after my initial attempts to forget my sorry existence, to buy up as much stock in the family businesses. Mother gifted me a few more stocks on my twenty-fifth birthday, and on my twenty-sixth, Father tried to buy me out with a truly ridiculous amount of cash, but I told him to fuck off - _politely._ ” It was recited with casual irritation, a list of things worthy of disdain and distaste. “It was tempting to accept the deal.”

Frowning, confused, “Why’d he try to buy you out? I don’t get it. And the stocks -”

“Income, my darling Vincent, income,” sighing again, the patiently annoyed eye roll evident without even having to take his own eyes from the road to check Eugene. “There was a stipend to cover things for awhile, but they rescinded that this year. Apparently there’s only so long they’ll tolerate supporting a disappointment, then again, if I showed up, it would embarrass them badly enough they may reinstate it. Mostly, they want to forget me, to be rid of me, and my name as an owner of a statistically worthy percentage of stock, makes it difficult for them to deny my continued existence to themselves or others. If I hadn’t taken steps to secure myself financially however I could, by now, I’d be destitute. Budgeting was never my strong suit, then again, money was never an issue.” Snorting, “God, just imagine where I’d be then! What’s the going rate for a crippled callboy, hmn?”

Finally, Vincent did glance over, to see Eugene staring out the passenger window, features in profile somewhere between bewildered, despondent, and confused. Letting go the wheel long enough to squeeze the hand nearest to him, “You’d be an awful escort. Besides, you’d find something better suited to you, anyway. Find yourself a nice sugar mama or daddy. A nice loaded old moneybag widow, wantin’ to sit around some garden or some shit, drinkin’ tea, and talkin’ about books, politics, or reminiscin’ about dear old hubby, and how he was bad in the sack and nowhere near so pleasant as you, and ain’t he just rollin’ in his grave. Fuck, you probably wouldn’t even have to nail’er too often, those kinds of broads just want someone to talk with and spoil since their ungrateful brats are too busy to visit...”

That garnered an incredulous laugh, “You’re serious? That sounds a lot cushier than what I was thinking! Here I am, thinking that my worst case scenario, I’d be selling myself as a borrowed ladder or something. After all, that’s what German keeps after me to do.”

Parking in the designated stall at Eugene’s condo, Vincent turned to look at him fully. “What?”

“He’s a fixer, that’s what he does,” eyes rolling yet again, waving a hand, dismissing it all. “He asks on the regular, circling like a shark, waiting for my finances to go sour. What he doesn’t know, is that that’s not bloody likely to happen. Still,” shrugging, “he asks. When Valids lose their place in society, fall on hard times, or just plain can’t take the pressure of functioning anymore, we become very hot commodities. Or are you really that innocent and out of the loop?” Eugene finally looked at him, returning his gaze, and it narrowed thoughtfully, “No. No, you aren’t that innocent and out of the loop, Vincent. De-geners, borrowed ladders, playing someone else’s hand, any (in)Valid would know about that. It’s Valids that do everything we can to prevent that kind of knowledge spreading amongst our own ranks, keep our genesequenced offspring from thinking there’s a way out from what we designed them for, or the fear that they can be used like that...” More sober sounding than he had been in more than in several hours, “That’s why you know German, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, well,” shrugging it off, breaking away from the weight of those clear eyes that had gone silver out in the darkness of the dimly lit parking lot, “he’s been lookin’ and I don’t think it’s gonna happen anytime soon. I’m not holdin’ my breath. Besides, the longer he takes, the longer he can charge me a retainer fee...” Rubbing his chin anxiously, “I can plan, I can hope, I can sock away money for the hoped for eventuality, b-but the longer it takes, the more days I get up and go to clean the floors and the bathrooms of the place that holds the key to all my dreams, all my efforts...” Reaching out, grasping the air with both hands, like he could grab something solid and drag it to himself, “Ev’body says, my parents, from day one, even tryin’ to take the books from my hands, the telescope from me, but givin’ up because y’know, why not humour me at least a little, not like I’ll ever manage, right? I’ll die in a few years, let me have my stupid dreams...my coworkers, anybody I ever talked about that stuff to - they all say, ‘Vincent, just give up. Put it away. Live your life here, in the real world. It’s a pipe dream. It’ll never happen.’ No matter what degrees, what skills I accumulate, it doesn’t matter.” Slouching in the leather bench seat, “I’ve done everything, taken every step, and all that stops me is my DNA...and that could be faked with a borrowed ladder, right? So I’ve even gone so far to try and find one of those - but fuck if anythin’s comin’ of it, and I just, I just get up, go to work, and try to be patient, try to say it’ll be soon, that everythin’ I’ve done that was an obstacle to overcome, and that bein’ patient will let me overcome this next one.” Voice cracking, “Clock’s tickin’, and there’s been no word from German that he’s found anythin’ close. It’s not just the genes, it’s if I can pass as them. Gotta be both.” Chewing his lips, “Look, I get that it’s some shameful shit to you, that it’s awful, an’ usin’ someone else to get ahead, but it’s the only way I -”

“There’s nothing shameful about doing what you must to get to the finish line,” interrupting, “I know all about that. Training, skill, endurance... I know about those things, Vincent, I remember them still. The notion of whether or not it’s right or wrong is for those who are comfortable in their own little worlds, not for those who compete.” Fingers reached out, tracing the corner of Vincent’s jaw, “Didn’t you say there was to be a meteor shower tonight? Or did we miss it? There’s several blankets in the back that I made especially certain where there before you came, so that we could go straight away and stretch out perhaps...”

 

XXX

Lips on the back of his shoulder, back of his neck, hard bodied warmth at his back, curled around him, and Vincent slowly woke up, a sense of feeling...safe, secure, moving through him. It was peculiar. Unfamiliar. Addictive, actually. An arm slid under his pillow, tugging and tucking him even closer, almost possessive - actually possessive when paired with the other one that wound around his side to his chest, palm flat over his sternum. 

Reaching up, Vincent sleepily traced the spread fingers down to wrist and back up again, muffling a yawn into his bicep where it rested over the oversized pillow he and Eugene were sharing. “Mph, mornin’ isn’t it?” Lifting up his head, squinting he measured the light and shadows he could see, “Fuck, y’know, I’ve never slept in so much ever until I met you, Eugene,” mumbling with sleepy amusement to the other man who was clearly awake by the brushes of blinking lashes he felt against the side of his neck, and the strange mashing of mouth to the back of his shoulder once the earlier firmer kisses to wake him up had been laid.

Something indistinct was muttered, but it was too soft for him to catch.

“Whazzat? C’mon,” yawning again, beginning to try and roll over, “you know my logic brain’s not real good until my devotional to Lady Caffeine's been had, use small words loud ‘nough for someone still kinda asleep to hear and understand.”

“Come with me to England,” again, clearer, but still muttered, and that couldn’t be what was said.

Trying harder to turn over to face Eugene, Vincent found himself held tightly in place, imobile, “What?”

“Come. With. Me. To. England,” each word enunciated, bitten off, and no longer said into his shoulder. 

“Eugene you gone crazy? I can’t do that,” disbelieving, Vincent flexed and turned and sat up, breaking the other man’s hold, which caused a full body flinch of surprise from Eugene but he ignored that. Guess the Englishman wasn’t accustomed to someone, particularly an (in)Valid, being stronger than him, or at least strong enough to do that. “I got work. Look, much as I wouldn’t mind it bein’ otherwise, I don’t have the same sort of resources you do -”

“There’s enough for both of us,” Eugene rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “You know, part of why I preferred the States, was because while I don’t mind women in particular, it would’ve been harder to hide a long term male partner from my family. Not that they would mind per se, up until a man gets married, it’s excusable as close friends sharing a flat, a house, or something, a built in companion to go get into trouble with, so on, so forth - much better than living on one’s own. The geneticist did his best to weed out family predilection, but they spliced in so many other things, that it’s a wonder I don’t have extra fingers and toes, or can breathe underwater.” A shallow breath was taken quickly and huffed out his nose, “I don’t mind women, they can be perfectly lovely, there’s plenty of things to like about them, the way they move, the way they smell, the way they sound or taste...but my appreciation of them is more for the idea or the artistry of a woman, than desire for a woman. Would’ve done my duty if I hadn’t failed and done other embarrassing things, but, you know, it all added up. There were so many things I had to keep hidden, that were easier to hide when I didn’t have so many social niceties to maintain like I would have if I stayed in England.” Sardonic twitch of a smile, hands folding over his chest, “I swam for England, but had been living in the States almost since graduating Cambridge. And I graduated from there in less than two years, I was nineteen you know. One of the first batch of accelerated for Valid learning speed educations. Eaton is supposed to be for mid-teens, but I was there at age twelve...you see where I’m going perhaps?”

Grimacing, Vincent grabbed his glasses off the nightstand, “Not really, you’re kinda all over the place - that’s usually my thing.” Flopping down onto his side, not wanting to sit towering over the prone and baring his vulnerabilities Eugene, Vincent propped his head in hand, the other going out to cover Eugene’s entwined ones, lending presence best he could. “What I’m hearin’ is that you’re more interested in guys, would’ve tolerated a girl as much as necessary, but decided to go where you could be more you without family breathin’ down your neck, and that you’re an epically smart jerk because you did some classes that prior generations didn’t tackle at the same age and rate. Not seein’ how the school bit ties in -”

“School ties in, because the ages, sexes, and social standing of the potential partners becomes far more varied in that setting,” explaining kindly. “And I tried everything and anything I could, but found myself half in love with a much older classmate... That wasn’t easy to hide, as you see I got jealous when I found out he was married and that there was a baby on the way. I came up with the crazy notion that if we ran away together to America, that everything would be fine. Of course it wasn’t, and of course he didn’t, but here I stayed as much as possible. Didn’t want to return in shame, waited for the gossip on that scandal to die down.”

Leaning in, Vincent kissed Eugene’s shoulder, “Okay, that explains that, but it don’t explain the goin’ to England now, or, well, the other thing...”

The “other thing” being the bald faced statement that there was ‘enough’ financial wherewithal to support them both. Even if there was, Vincent wasn’t the kind of person who knew how to just...sit back and relax. These weekends with Eugene were the closest to ‘vacation’ and ‘taking it easy’ that he could ever remember. And he _still_ sometimes got ants in his pants, which resulted in cleaning sprees, or a visit to the grocery store, with or without Eugene, and returning to prep up lots of meals that Eugene could eat through the week if he was too drunk or out of it to do for himself... That Eugene also helped in the making of all those pre-prepared meals was nice, the man wasn’t a complete slacker in the kitchen, but he wasn’t that experienced either. He knew a few things, and could do them well, but his repertoire was limited. Between the two of them and a couple cookbooks, they had some nice times.

“I’m already a disgrace, so long as I don’t make any waves, nobody will have to take note of our arrival,” talking like it was already a done deal. 

“Eugene -”

“Wait,” sea glass gaze intense, pinning him, _hard_. “You said your clock is ticking, that time is of the essence. If you’ll recall, I said that back home, you couldn’t be denied medical care. If we go, you could make use of the system that you’d have access to via me. No matter if it’s a large or a small problem, you would at least finally know without a doubt, and if it’s at all treatable, it would be.” Stabbing a finger at Vincent’s chest, right over the muscle that had cursed him from birth, “ _No more clock, Vincent. Not even that piddling little hiccup that’s all I’ve ever heard._ ”

His stomach lurched, trying not to think about that. “I don’t get it.”

“What? What don’t you get? What is there to not get?” bolting upright, scowling. “Didn’t you hear me? Haven’t you been listening? Anything even remotely possibly wrong with you could be _fixed_ -”

“Not that!” snapping at him, mirroring him, then when that didn’t feel right, Vincent hopped out of the bed, and began pacing. “Why bother? What’s it to you?”

“I tolerate you reasonably well,” snapping in turn, harsh and petulant, like it was something to be both lauded and chagrined by. “Your company isn’t unpleasant, you don’t hog the bed, you’re pleasing in bed, and nice enough to look at! Your conversational skills aren’t polished, but the substance is plenty sufficient to makeup for any sort of lack in that department.”

Turning on him, Vincent grabbed the footboard, leaning in, incredulous, “You’ve got to be fucking joking. So, what, I just give up my life, become your boytoy that you neaten up, take in like some stray animal or one picked up from the pound, make sure it’s got all its shots, is housebroken and all that -”

“Oh for pity’s sake, Vincent! I told you you’re not a fucking pet to be kept on some leash or caged!” snarling. “You’re not some _thing_! I warned you - I _warned_ you to go!” finger stabbing in his direction. “I _told_ you that you make things too comfortable here! What do you want me to say? That I’ve got feelings for you? And that they’re not of a friendly nature? Bloody fuckin’ hell! Shall I hand you a knife and have you press it over my heart or something like that for it to be any more pitifully obvious that the human wreckage that hires you specifically because you’ve never had a sodding friend before and you make him feel almost whole for a few days at a time - has some sort of - fucking hell! Look, I get it! Men are easy, they don’t get attached, that’s what you said, that’s what you told me! I understand, women are for relationships, for feelings, you’re straight and just gay for pay -”

“Wai-wai-wai- _hey shudd’up for a second_!” yelling at him, almost coming in closer to shake him, but Vincent was worried he might slap Eugene or something else out of character, and yanked on his hair, frustrated. “One thing at a time, holy shit!” Holding up a finger, “One - no knives, no romance novel or show bullshit, okay? Docs said I had somethin’ like a sixty to seventy percent chance of manic depression or other neurological disorder for the crazy makin’, but I’m certain they got that one wrong, and you got all’a my potential crazy injected into you. Two,” holding up a second finger, “not straight. Definitely not straight, Eugene. Yeah, women for relationships I suppose, because they’re the ones who seem to go for ‘um. That’s why. They’re taught to work on feelings and interpersonal relationships more than dudes are, so, that’s why I always figure women and feelin’s go hand in hand more than guys. Yeah, also, okay, I admit there’s a higher percentage of attractive women in the world than there are men, but that’s ‘cuz guys are kinda lazy that way.” Third finger popped up, “Third, _I_ **told** _you_ that me bein’ here hinged on whether or not you wanted me here, not whether I got paid, or German did, or whatever. And no, you can’t use the excuse that you were hungover to say you forgot, because I was tired as hell too, and you’d slept and eaten and were sober by then, just kinda under the weather processin’ out all that shit you drank.” Eugene was staring at him, intense, still in that weird level of strength that Vincent would read as aggression in anyone else, but wondered if was actually desperation or craving, and he held up a fourth finger, “Four, to me, you’re whole. Chair, canes, whatever, they’re just like my glasses or my ADHD meds or some antihistamines. You gotta fuckin’ quit buying this line of useless bullshit that you’re not whole! It ain’t true, you can’t let people have you lookin’ at yourself so hard, searchin’ so much for every single little flaw so you can hate yourself! It ain’t right, and I’m fucking sick of hearin’ it from you. When you were walkin’ away from me that first night after lettin’ me in, and I was watchin’ you walk, and blurted out you were beautiful, I meant it. You’re like...graceful as well as beautiful. Okay? You got a mind, we already had this talk, probably the first night if I’m not mistaken! You got a mind, and you got value, you ain’t broken. So what if you can’t bust a move like you used to? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got two-left feet too, and unlike you, I don’t have a reason for bein’ a slump on the dance floor.” 

Vincent let the end of the bed catch his rump as he plunked down, matching Eugene stare for stare. “Five, it’s too damn early to be doing all this yelling. Goddamn.” Asking, “Can we stop arguing over weird stuff? I’m so far outta my depth here, that I don’t even know how to float to the surface of this.”

“The last time I had any meaningful feelings for someone,” the shrug summed up the thought eloquently. “You’ll have to forgive me for being a touch...defensive.”

Taking the nearest hand in both of his, “You gotta point me in a direction, gimme some kind of destination, otherwise, I can’t chart a way to get there.” Adding, “Your experiences make you defensive, well, remember mine, okay? If I’ve never had a friend, what’s the chance I’ve ever had anything much at all, huh?”

To that, Eugene looked away, shamefaced for the first time Vincent had ever seen - or, well, far more so than when Vincent had cleaned him up that one night from the weeks long binge. “What sorry luck you’ve got, then. Not certain what’s worse - having it all and having it turn to poison, or having been suckled on poison and becoming immune, aloof to any source of it...”

“Sucks both ways,” shrugging. Ducking his head, “Still friends?”

“I suppose so,” it didn’t sound enthusiastic at all.

“That’s not a bad thing,” grunting at Eugene. “Don’t they say that you should be friends with the people you have feelings for? Or is that just Hallmark stuff?” Thinking back, “I think my parents were friends with each other. They didn’t seem to have any when I was growin’ up, just each other...honestly, if you ask me, it looked kinda lonely, but they seemed happy enough, Dad dotin’ on Anton, and Mom always tryin’ to make sure I wasn’t keeling over dead at any moment... Maybe they didn’t have time to be friends with anybody but each other, but they liked to talk, laugh, go do stuff together...”

“You should contact them,” came the instruction.

“Oh hell no!” laughing. “No way. That’s a mess I don’t want anywhere near! While you were at Eaton, I was on the streets, Eugene, I did what I had to do to get away. No way, no how, am I lettin’ even well meainin’ Mom back into my world. Just make a mess of everything. If German ever comes through...” trailing off, shrugging. “You, I-I think you’d be okay ignoring that, and stayin’ in contact, hell, could do like you described - two dudes who’re friends living together, with no one else realizin’ which bed gets used most, not their business. But if I contacted them...they’d ruin everything, Eugene. They’d destroy it all.” Seeing Eugene’s frown, “They’re also devoutly Catholic. You wanna deal with that? I don’t. I remember that my parents even paid extra to insure the geneticist canceled out anything but a hundred percent hetero on Anton’s embryo. They’re not bad people, but they’re not my people, Eugene. Let them have whatever happiness Anton can bring them - I’d only upset it, and be upset by their bein’ upset, okay?”

“I’ll drop it if you agree to come to England,” striking a low blow.

Wincing, “Lemme think about it. Besides, what would I do after, anyway?”

“Be better prepared for the ladder you wish to climb,” shrugging. “We’ll revisit the subject later, then, once you’ve had your coffee...”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot! Oh my goodness, plot progression.

German was sitting at the small dining table, watching both of them with his inscrutable, stoic expression. There was wine - one of Eugene’s preferred vintages, Vincent was content with the hard cider the Englishman had ordered as a variation on available alcoholic beverages of the beer variety that Vincent had stated he didn’t care for - and lasagna. It was an alright lasagna, not really Eugene’s thing apparently, but the man ate it, and Vincent had been known, in the past, to use the dish as a vehicle to pack in as much vegetables and meat that wasn’t quite good anymore. Didn’t matter that the lasagna on the table was all fresh and unspoiled ingredients, to Vincent, it would always be thought of as that food he used to hide the spoiled in, so that it wouldn’t be wasted and he wouldn’t be hungry.

“This is a bit unusual,” German said after taking a deep drink of the wine. “It’s not how things generally go in this business, being invited by clients to their place for a meal.”

Eugene spoke, cutting to a chase and in a direction Vincent wasn’t expecting - they had discussed travel papers, that’s it! “I understand he has you on retainer, looking for a gene profile to borrow. How much work do you think it’d take for him to pass as me?”

“What-wait, that’s not,” sitting up straight in his seat, turning towards Eugene, but the Englishman was holding up a hand to quiet him.

“How much work?”

German watched them both for several long minutes, “When Vincent first came to me, I’d already been asking you if you’d considered your future after your parents stopped supporting you. I wanted to help a long time client out, you’d always been reliable, prompt, putting out the word to a add to my client list, and it seemed a shame to not offer to facilitate your continued standard of living if there was something I could do to help.” The swarthy man focused on Eugene, “Vincent’s paid a healthy sum over the years, and I continued to look, since you weren’t interested. It pains me actually, literally pains me, whatever you think of me, gentlemen, that I’ve been coming up on a brick wall for this long.” Shaking his head, irritated, “It’s never happened before.”

“I don’t care about your story, German,” Eugene’s voice was pure ice. “I want to know, how much work, and if you think it’s feasible. If it’s not -” leaning forward, “say so, and continue your thus far fruitless search, with no more paid into your retainer, due to ongoing failure. Think of it as a gesture of professional good faith for the sake of your name.” 

“Okay, hey, my money, my life here -” 

“Darling please be quiet,” Eugene sighed, not even glancing his way. 

Aggravated, Vincent sat back, arms crossing over his chest. If Eugene thought he could just talk over him like that, could dictate his behaviour... It made him less keen on the whole ‘go to England, be a kept man until ideal ladder comes along’ schtick that Eugene had been pressuring him over for the last couple months. Bastard was persistent, and so far, Vincent had resisted. Every Sunday, fuck, every Monday through Friday morning, Vincent wanted to give in, not get out of bed for an alarm, and instead map Eugene’s body with hands and mouth, or sit, reading together, or talking, or, or, or...

“If I thought pairing the two of you up for a bit of one on one would get things going -”

“Cut the bullshit, German,” cold, imperious, every inch the aristocrat. “Your anecdotes, while amusing generally, are not required at the moment. Answers, are.”

Gaze going hooded, the older man settled into his chair, weighing his options. “Eyes, hair, teeth, they’re easy enough,” listing. “The lab equipment I’d bring in to lease to you both, is something I can get if given some time to order it, put it all in place. Those’re still the minor issues. Vincent would have to sell it, and that’s the biggest obstacle. Physical, those are all something that can be dealt with, contacts, dye, bit of dental work, the build could be bulked up some with a short course of steroids or growth hormones, the height...” hand waving back and forth, balancing, “he’s too short.”

“He could wear lifts,” Eugene’s lips were pursed, and Vincent felt the measuring weight of his gaze on him. “Maybe not, my ability to tell height’s become somewhat...skewed.”

“How tall’er you?” Vincent asked, unthinking, his mind still trying to grapple with the conversation thus far, it was so far out of left field...

“Four-foot-six,” dryly. “Most of the time.”

“I meant before -”

“His profile says six one and a half,” German supplied. “Even with lifts, Vincent’d never be that tall. It’s more than three inches in difference, if it was half an inch, eh, people won’t notice, with or without lifts.” A bite of lasagna was had, “But there’s ways to fix that.”

“What? What kind of ways?” Vincent leaned in, curious. “Lifts are out, you can’t hang me upside down and stretch me like a noodle, the body doesn’t work that way. Maybe for a half inch, in some cases, maybe even an inch if someone’s got real bad posture -”

Eugene turned in his chair, draping an arm over the back, staring at him, “Surgery. They cut into your legs, specifically your shins, right through the bone. They make gaps, spaces, sometimes they use donor bone to help bridge the gap and make for a better, sturdier outcome in the shin. Other times, they use metal splints to fill the gap somewhat, making a trellis. And the third method, is they don’t do anything to help nurse that gap along and let your legs do it all on their own. While keeping your legs in cages, so they stay straight and have some support. Walking is out for at least several weeks even with the best method, then upgrading to crutches. It was a cosmetic feature revolutionized in the Ukraine as I recall, by surgeons for women who wanted to be more...statuesque.” Clearly, “All three methods are very painful, and each has their reason for being the method chosen. The first is done by those who are very good at what they do, and costs a great deal more, but, on the upshoot, has more stable results, and a shorter healing period, as well as being basically undetectable by body scans. The second is the middle of the road bit, but there’s also the risk of it being discovered in body scans - all that metal is lovely and magnetic. The third...is like the first in that it’s less likely to be discovered, while also being cost effective...even if it takes a great deal longer, comes with increased risk during the healing, and one solid whack to the shinbone, even years healed, it may double over like an uncooked lasagna noodle.”

Feeling queasy, Vincent pushed his full plate away, “No.”

“I thought you were serious, darling,” Eugene’s tone was mild. “That you’ve been waiting and doing your best to be patient, because you weren’t going to be dissuaded by a bit of trouble.”

“No - that’s, that’s not what I meant,” shaking his head emphatically. “All that other stuff, I can do that, but, but the legs -”

German chimed in, softer, not anywhere near so harsh as the weight of Eugene’s disappointment and disdain was, “When you came to me blabbering about wanting to work at Gattaca, and being the well informed fixer that I am, I knew you needed a particular kind of helix, Vincent. And I knew of only one Valid who had the profile and any kind of resemblance - but he wasn’t biting. I’ve been looking, even touching base and communicating with those with...similar connections to my own, beyond just locally, way beyond, and I’ll be blunt - none fit the bill the way Mr. Morrow does. The next closest match, is a Russian, and he’s even bigger, and taller.”

Eugene settled in to the meal, not looking up, “We’ll be needing papers for Vincent to travel to England with me, since he must remain unregistered. I trust you can procure those documents without so much fuss and delay? Upon our return, the final decision will be come to.” 

After German left, and seeing him to the door himself, Vincent rounded on Eugene, ready for a fight, an argument. He wasn’t ready for the hands on his face, the mouth on his, the arms wrapping around him as canes were left to clatter to the ground. Vincent took some of Eugene’s weight, fell into that kiss, angry, discomboobulated, so, so angry that the man had come up with this insanity. Hadn’t there been enough? What else did he want from him? 

Eugene rested his forehead against Vincent’s, “Now you can have it all, all of me, if you want me.”

Groaning, “You-you are such a fuckin’ jackass, Eugene. What stunt are you gonna pull next?” Softly, “What is it you want to hear, what is it you want from me? It’s one thing after another, sometimes, Eugene.” Before Eugene could pull away, or ask, Vincent went down the line, “Tellin’ German to not bring me for however many weeks, because you actually liked havin’ me around, so of course that means you can’t have that...and then do your best to drink yourself to death. Then you call me, middle of the night, and I come and help, because I care. Then, then you call German so that you could throw up some barrier of money or other, like, it’s a wall. So we do that for awhile, everything’s fine. Then you wake me up with ‘let’s go to jolly ol’England, tea and crumpets oh-my and hi, I’ve got feelings and don’t know how to express them without yellin’, nevermind that you’re out of your depth and got fuckall experience in this sorta thing. Come be my live-in, lemme be your sugar daddy’... Now-now this?” Cupping Eugene’s cheek, “Just goin’ off and makin’ decisions that affect me without so much as a warnin’ or by your leave...” Muttering, “Jesus, it must be love, otherwise I’d throw my hands up in the air, huh?”

“Bit awkward, I must admit,” Eugene laughed sheepishly. “When put like that. Am..am I really that difficult?”

“Only sometimes,” shrugging, squeezing him closer. “To me, that’s just alotta big things over the course of a few months, alright? Up until this, I’ve lived a very...quiet, borin’ life, I guess. Lots of work, work-work-work, study-study, sleep whenever I can, but work and study, way more important... Work to pay the bills, pay tuition, so I can learn everythin’ and anything I possibly can that’ll help me get where I wanna go. Work harder still, once the degrees are all done, so that I can feed myself in a way to do what I can with what little nature gave me for a body. Because, with or without a ladder, I’d need a body in the absolute peak I could get it...that takes a lot of fuel. And a ton of workin’ out. Not a lot of room in that life for anythin’ but trying to get where I wanna go. It’s hard, but it’s pretty quiet.”

“And I’ve gone and cocked it all up?” Eugene straightened, glancing down at the ground where his discarded canes were, then over a shoulder to his wheelchair. Before he could move one direction or another, Vincent stepped to the side, and scooped him up, “Here-now, you put me down, let me be good and chastened.”

“Tough,” snorting at him, and walked over to the couch, awkwardly toeing each cane in the general direction of it with each step. “No, you didn’t cock anythin’ up. I just, Earth, the people, this life with me nonstop preparing, there wasn’t too much room or want for anything else. Wanting other things, that just - that just opened up space for disappointment.” Shrugging, “Family, friends, you know? Like I said before, just a mess, and never gonna give nothin’ but pain and disappointment. So...then this crops up, and by and large, it’s not real loud with you, Eugene. Except when you’re roaring drunk, which, thankfully, isn’t that often as I take it it used to be, so, just so you know, I appreciate the concession.” Stretching out beside him, “I guess over the course of a few months, growin’ pains are normal? I dunno. Stupid mistakes, or miscommunication, or whatever you wanna call this kind of thing. But, it’s big and loud to me, and seems like a lot, because, I haven’t...” Shaking his head, “I was fifteen-sixteen when I left home. Was lying regularly about my age on applications to schools, to jobs...didn’t matter. So, I left home. That was the last ‘noisy’ thing. Everything after that was survival, and sure, lots of it was scary off and on, but I wasn’t afraid, wasn’t stressed, it was just something to push through.”

Eugene cocked his head, watching, listening, “You didn’t feel any fear at all? What did you feel?”

“Nothing, I guess,” thinking it over. “I mean, looking back, yeah, I see wariness, worry, frustration. But in the moment, just determination. It was just another thing, another step in the direction I wanted to go. Nothing really to it beyond that, didn’t feel anything beyond that drive, nothing existed besides that goal. Anything that interfered or touched on life, it was just...window dressing.”

“And this is window dressing,” firmly, though it was also a question.

“What? No!” shooting him a sour look. 

“Well, not now, because you can use -”

“No, no, no, and no, Jesus, Eugene,” groaning. “You are like the least window dressing thing in existence! You make the prospect of failing not quite as godawful and earth-ending as it should be! There’s times when I’ve been sitting with you, drifting along, and thinkin’ that if I hit my expiry date and it was an accurate one, and I didn’t get any closer to the stars - then at least the time with you wasn’t wasted!” Disgusted, annoyed, fed up, “Like I said, it must be love or something, because holy shit you can give me such a hard time...”

Eugene studied him intently for a moment, then nodded once, “In that case, good. If I’m to stick around on this ball of dirt, stuck in this irritating body, then I may as well share my time with someone who doesn’t view me as some sort of wallet or commodity. Which, perversely, makes me vastly more inclined to act as both, never did understand that about emotions...bizarre.”

Hands held up, “Okay, you know what, half the time I dunno what we’ve argued about, what we’ve decided, or what’s going on -”

“Clear out your things from your flat,” Eugene half-ordered, half-suggested. “After that, we start working on your handwriting. Retraining a leftie to a rightie isn’t the easiest thing, especially since you’re starting so late in life. Writing’s not the only thing you’ll have to switch hands on, you know. There’s things to do, and going to England to get you as healthy as medically possible, before coming back, and working on fine-tuning things, then there’s German, and then establishing you as Jerome Morrow out and about here. From there, then you go to Gattaca, and have your interviews, jump through their hoops, then do whatever it is you intend to do in their ranks, to get wherever it is you think you simply must go for your span on this mortal coil to be considered worthwhile, preferably you return, and we can fuck off to the French Riviera or something.” Adding, “That’s what’s going on. We were arguing about whether or not you were going to go through the necessary tasks to get to that. And whether or not I was a placeholder, something entertaining, and me being petulant over the notion.”

Vincent brushed the back of his hand over the long, angular jaw and into the soft locks, glad that today was a day Eugene had forgone pomade to hold it all neat, “Is that something that guy said? The one you wanted to run away to the States with?”

“Said what?” 

“That you were a bit of entertainment, a placeholder,” fingers tracing the strangely pointed shell of the Englishman’s ear. “Silly, something to use...a wallet.”

“He wasn’t from the same background,” hitched shoulder. “He was older, yes, handsome, but never would have gotten quite so many networking contacts if he hadn’t met me. I wasn’t a wallet to him, I was an old fashioned rolodex, filled to the brim with names he could use, attach himself to, and I do have to say, he’s done well for himself in the notoriously difficult English movie industry as a result. But, silly, yes. Naive. Foolish. Conceited. Boring, actually, he called me boring...outside of the bed, that is. There I was perfectly entertaining, if a little bland according to him.” Staring straight ahead, “A placeholder for his wife, who didn’t have a man’s appetites. Funny, I always found her coming onto me whenever I found myself interacting with her. Doubt he ever knew, don’t care either way, I suppose.” Hands falling into his lap, “And my friends, when they all up and disappeared, well, after that, I figured it’s just best to buy my friends, at least then it’s all honest and on the table. It really is pathetic.”

“Didn’t love anybody else?” 

“Infatuations here and there, one or two things that could have turned into more, if either of us were braver, or more certain of what we wanted,” shrugging it off. “There was a very odd group where I had several male paramours and girlfriends all at once, who all knew about one another, and had their own on the side, too. But that was age, what? Seventeen to nineteen? The _really_ hormonal years,” laughing at himself lightly. “I felt deep affection for them, and our mutual idiocy. Beyond that...no - unless you count my nanny?” Raising a brow, “I loved her dearly, still do, but not romantically, just...a great deal. She was safety and warmth and affection -”

“She was Mom,” agreeing. “Yeah. All the nice stuff in one package.” 

“Yes,” Eugene made a face, forcing his legs to cross, then released a relieved sigh. “My horse, Noor, she was my confidant and friend, I suppose. Hmn, I think that’s about it. Did I love Coach Barker? Ugh, goodness no, feared, respected him, yes. Loathed him, too. Definitely didn’t love. Parents...? Hmn, maybe a passing affection at some point.” Shrugging again, “And that is the great sum of what and whom Jerome Morrow ever loved. Eugene on the other hand, he’s a bit of a fool, don’t know how that happened, drunken sot should be in love with the bottle, not a crazy dreamer. Do you think someone mixed a love potion into some batch of whiskey I downed before meeting you?”

“Man, we’re two fuckin’ weird peas in a pod, ain’t we,” snickering at Eugene’s seemingly innocent rhetorical question that came pantomimed with wide eyes and patently false bemusement. “So now what, Mr. Know-it-All, do we graduate on to the makeup sex you mentioned that first night? Or do we just canoodle a bit and act like nothin’ happened?”

XXX

Vincent was in Eugene’s tall, deep, door having tub. It was nice in that the water went all the way up to his shoulders if he wanted it to, but was weird in that it had that side-door. It allowed Eugene to get in and out easier, particularly on bad days when his legs wouldn’t cooperate at all. He and the other man were presently sharing it, Vincent holding up a fogless shaving mirror, while Eugene carefully scraped away at Vincent’s sandalwood froth covered cheeks with a big ass straight razor. He barely dared to breathe under the careful ministrations, not because he felt like Eugene’s hands weren’t steady or like the other man intend any harm, but holy hell that blade was big, sharp, and near all kinds of major blood vessels. Which was to say nothing of the kind of damage that could happen if the thing was dropped and hit his lap, or a leg...

“You know, I’ve never done anything like this before,” Eugene mused aloud. “Shaving another person. It’s a great deal more erotic than I thought it’d be.”

During a momentary swipe to clean off the blade and run fingers over the just shaved area, checking it, Vincent let loose a shudder, “I’m still stuck on the part where you’ve got a knife to my neck.” Twisting to glance down at one of Eugene’s hair legs where it was submerged in the deep trough of clear water, “Please tell me you used a normal razor on your legs when you used to do those.”

Lips touched his ear, strong arms partially encircling him, “Oh no, I did it the way I was taught - like a man. Grandfather insisted. Anything less, and he’d write me off as a ponce, or so he threatened during the lessons, and so he announced when declaring I had to shave what little facial hair I’d managed to grow around puberty... And as I got hairier everywhere else, which negatively impacted my swimming according to physics and all my coaches, Grandfather once again, took matters in hand, and saw to it that no grandson of his was going to disappoint him by taking any feminine route to depilation.” Snorting, “Fairly certain he was a pervert, but if so, he restrained himself barring a bit of manhandling, leering, and yelling at me, until I managed to shave myself without mishap...”

“Have I ever told you that your family’s fucked up?” Vincent tipped his head back, making a face. “Like, really. They’re fucked up.” Shaking his head, turning back to stare at the mirror because Eugene snickered and pushed his chin just so, readying to return to shaving him, “I’d say you turned out normal, but on that, I think the jury’s still out, not that I’m one to talk, they’re still tryin’ to figure out who the hell to pick for the jury on me.”

There was just an amused hum, followed by a few bars of some song, the green eyes in the mirror focused on what the steady hands were doing. It was all done faster than Vincent thought it would be, though he knew Eugene had gone slower on him than he did on himself, since the man set to right after Vincent rinsed his own face off. A bit of shave oil, not even using the easily frothed up soap, was all Eugene applied before settling down to remove any stubble with an almost terrifyingly casual ease, passing the big blade over nooks and crannies with only one eye locked on the mirror if at all. 

“Ah, there, done,” flash of smile, the straight razor rinsed and wiped clean, then tossed onto the toiletry stand that was kept within easy reach of the tub. “Where’s my kiss for a job well done?”

A kiss led to other things, quickly at that, when in such close quarters. Vincent muttered a curse when water splashed over the side, but was promptly distracted by the soap slicked hand on his dick, and the licking bite over his nipple. Growling, it really wasn’t fair sometimes how Eugene could do that, make him forget stuff, particularly anything outside of the other man.

Splashing in the tight quarters, water heaved around them lightly, as Vincent managed to get a hold on Eugene who was about as slippery as a big thing of seaweed, and about ten times more easy to get tangled and caught in. “Hey-hey, that’s not fair -”

Humming, laughing, lips under his jaw, head tipped back, for the moment, still and allowing Vincent to hold him in place - just for the moment, it was only ever for a moment, “All’s fair as they say.”

Shifting to try and straddle Eugene’s legs, pressing at his shoulders to keep them from surging up, which usually was followed by arms wrapping around him in a tugging, viselike hold, “Yeah, but they can be wrong sometimes. Besides,” deeming he had the Englishman’s attention, he cupped his head, thumb tracing the dimpled chin, “what’s not fair, is that you can make me crazy in about five seconds, and I can’t remember anythin’ else, or think of anything else, outside of you. That’s not fair.”

Brows tipping up at the center, confused, “I don’t see how that’s anything bad, it sounds rather lovely to me.”

“Yeah, on one hand, sure,” grunting. “But you, I can’t make you feel like you make me feel.”

Rapid blinks, “Nonsense, I have full feeling, I told you that, things can just be a little slow,” straightening to sit upright, “my legs just don’t follow my orders the way they should. And, alright, yes, there’s some deadening of sensation, but not really all that much truthfully -”

“No, I mean -” sitting back, rubbing the back of his head, “you’re always in control of yourself, always perfect, always aware, always, y’know, _poised_. But you touch me, and boom, I’m gone, I’m putty, I’ve forgotten everything, up to, and includin’, my name - because that’s how good you are at this. Me...” He hitched a shrug, “It doesn’t seem fair.”

“How so?” blinking rapidly afresh, puzzling over the information, listening, for the moment setting aside any distracting amorousness.

“Maybe to you, because I’m mediocre or something,” wincing. “If I was better, then it’d be better for you.”

Eugene simply stared, waiting him out.

“Alright, and not fair to me, because I give up control, or you can make me give it up, without any say or fight, and I can’t get anywhere near that for you, or that y’know, you get to see me off my head, and I never get to see you, or, back to not fair for you, you’re not able to feel whatever enough that it’s alright for you to let go too, or well, safe to do so, or,” it was tumbled, mumbled, as he tried to figure it out. “Christ, does that sound as dumb as I think it does?”

“You’re beautiful when you’re wild,” succinctly. “You’re unabashed, there’s no artifice, there’s no holding back of anything. You’re all there. With me. And I like to watch you when you’re like that, to be part of it is...” Shoulder hitched, water splashed from a gesturing hand, “Astonishing I suppose. There’s no one quite like you, Vincent. When you hold nothing back, give and take like you do, simultaneously, all I want is more. I do forget though, I do forget that I’m the one who’s brought it about, and am instead driving forward for more, to do whatever it takes to witness you, share that moment with you.” Brow furrowing, “And I’ve lost myself to being with you before, forgotten anything beyond that...” 

The first Sunday. 

Understanding dawned, or, well, epiphany more like. That Sunday morning had been intended as a goodbye of some sort. Or taking with both hands what was wanted and experiencing it the only time Eugene had intended to allow himself to do so. 

“What?” Eugene sighed, expression sharpening, becoming curious and stern all at once. “What is it?”

“Done so you can say you did it once,” Vincent grunted, standing up in the tub, snagging a towel. “I dunno how this is going to work,” groaning, face in the towel. “Just forget I said anything, my head’s being stupid again.”

Hands went to his waist, caressing, circling lightly, soothingly, “Like when you got all skittish and for a moment I thought -” amending, “was concerned that up until that moment, it had been you talking a bigger game than you were prepared for...?”

“Wha-uh-umn.” Shaking his head, “Not exactly what was going on on my end. More...dazed, confused, and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do when compared to you. Hadn’t been one to ever think myself on the lacking side in way too many years, and suddenly, hey, there’s Adonis, there’s perfection, all up and beside me, and I’m suddenly frumpy chopped liver. How the hell do I compete with that? And everything else, how can I possibly measure up compared to whoever managed to share that? And how bored must you be, or, pitying, to throw my goofy ass a bone...”

“Oh good lord, that’s not true at all,” Eugene said exasperated. “I mean, yes, the lonely part that you’ve politely left out and I’m owning up to, yes, I was very much that, but chopped liver, and Adonis, or whathaveyou, besides, do you actually know what happens to Adonis? Nothing pleasant. It’s not a ruddy competition, never was. I wanted you in my bed, because I wanted you in my bed,” and Vincent felt the towel being tugged insistently but he wouldn’t relinquish it. “You were funny, you are a great deal more attractive than you seem to realize, you were intelligent, and my god, I don’t think anybody had ever kicked my ass the way you did, spoken to me the way you did, still do, I may add, and allow me to inform you, I can’t tell if it’s shocking or refreshing, and if you ever stop it, I’ll be cross with you.” Growling, “Now who’s being womanish, you ditch that towel right now, before I give you a drubbing. Insecurity doesn’t become you. I damn well enjoyed every moment you were in my bed, and have since, even when I’m being an ass and making a mess of things on my own. Besides,” another yank, this time successful, and Vincent wouldn’t look at Eugene, too embarrassed for being the one to act like an idiot, not that the other man made it easy since he was leaning in close, “I find that sometimes the harder I work at maintaining my awareness sometimes, the harder you work at shattering it, and that’s all kinds of fun.”

Water began to drain noisily from the tub, Vincent sighing, accepting Eugene’s statements at face value, “Yeah.”

They got through another moment of weird back and forth that Vincent was struggling with. Normally it was Eugene who was acting like an idiot, or at least bore the brunt of being noisily an idiot, though the Englishman seemed to feel like he had the most to lose. Funny, Vincent felt like he had more to lose if he messed things up, so he kept his own confusions quiet. Strangled them down, coasted until he got his bearings, distracted himself until he felt more even. Problem was, was that he had given his two weeks notice the Monday after the German lunch debacle, and now, Vincent wouldn’t be able to retreat to work for a few days to clear his head if he needed to. Now was the first test run, basically, to see if he and Eugene could live together, work together, in tight and close quarters for a long period of time, before anything else was put on the line. Like a visit to England. Fucking hell that thought alone gave Vincent the jitters more than anything else ever had. After that, it would be a series of one-two-punches, again and again, that would keep coming until he - hopefully - made it into Gattaca. And then there would be however long it took to live that life, to get to the stars, hell, he could only hope, pray, dream that if he made it that far, that he could get on one of the Titan expedition teams, but he’d settle for the two year Mars and Moon missions that were frequently undertaken. That gave him a timeframe of about three years start to finish, the window of ideal launch opportunity was only open a week once every seventy years...

Hissing, startled, Vincent flinched at the sharp sting of teeth on his rump, followed by a rather firm smack to the opposite cheek, “Earth to Vincent, darling! There is a man down here on _terra firma_ , one who is rather keen on jumping your bones this evening, perhaps shagging until we forget our own names, but can helpfully remind the other by calling out the name we do remember now and again...”

Laughing at the absurdity, rolling over in the bed that he had forgotten that they meandered to after drying off, “Uh-huh, yeah, sure thing, whatever you say, I’m all yours.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” preceded the shift in weight, and lips nipping over his neck briefly.

And of course, Vincent found himself rapidly forgetting anything else when full lips finally reached his own. Muffled noises trying to be moans at the thorough kisses that tangled tongues, slipping over one another, lips smoothly clinging, interspersed with a sharp bite now and again, sometimes to a lip, sometimes to some other spot, and Vincent responded in kind more often than not... There was something in how Eugene smelled, warm, smooth, male but it was more than that. Hardness pressed down and ground against his own, silken skin, and there were hands smoothing down his sides when weight settled heavier, arms no longer bracing for long moments, a hungry panted breath in the side of his neck, and there were soft brown-blond curls being woven through by his fingers, broad shoulders painted with bite marks or by his fingers when they slid from Eugene’s crown downwards. Rolling and bucking up, with and against, Vincent groaned when one of Eugene’s hands slide down under him, around his thigh to tease, until he was hissing with the sensation of finger trapped and burrowed in tight against his prostate, thumb holding tighter still right behind his balls, so that any movement at all - even breathing - resulted in stimulation, all that melding with Eugene’s cock grinding with his, the weight of him, the smell, the taste, and he wrapped arms around him tightly, legs twitching and shaking to hook and hold Eugene close, as he bucked upwards, bright lights blooming behind his clenching eyelids, semen spilling freely from his cock in a pulsing flow over his stomach and chest, to be smeared by continuing purposeful rockings. 

Shaky breathing, trying to catch his breath, while a familiar, almost reflexive by now, motion with jerking chin helped resettle his glasses, and he was left staring up at Eugene who was watching him, with a trace of a smile hanging around the edges of lush mouth. Leaning up, covering up that smile, it only broadened against his own lips, but that wasn’t important. Sure touch slipping out of his still flexing hole, Vincent hoped that wasn’t a whimper of disappointment, thankfully if it was, it was short-lived. Sticky and smooth, the fingers coated with lube, returned to stroking him until he thought he’d fall over again, Eugene’s kisses interrupting him any time he was about to talk, to say something, to beg, or rush, any words fleeing when paired with the steady sureness of fingers opening him up and a thought stealing kiss. When Eugene finally began pressing in, Vincent’s hips were arched as high as he could get them, head doing similar, trying to bury itself in a dusky pale gold shoulder, moaning, hands clutching at wiry, deceptive biceps that had gone tight and bulging with effort, hanging on to Eugene like he was the only solid thing left in the world. 

Whispered encouragements in his ear, pressed to his temple or forehead, Vincent could feel Eugene shaking too, either strain from making his body obey his orders that well, restraint and holding himself back, or desire, maybe all three, “That’s it, darling - fuck -” the occasional curse heartfelt and coming with a shudder. 

This wasn’t anywhere near the first time, but it had been awhile, and Vincent did his best to relax, but the intrusion and stretching made him clench, wanting to hold Eugene tight inside him - except that actually slowed things down... Bucking when Eugene was halfway, crown of his cock or the length of topside shifting and rubbing even lightly with their combined heaved breathing over Vincent’s prostate, to say nothing of the tingling nerves that had been woken up all around his ass by the earlier play, and all that was there that he could focus on was fullness and want and shaking. Soft, pleased, delighted laughter, breathless and then more whispered words, the individual ones no longer making sense, just the tone, until he caught his breath once again, orgasm scattered wits regathering themselves, leaving him shuddering for a different reason than pleasure at what Eugene was saying. It was more than endearments or encouragement, it was more, and Vincent blocked it out, ignored the words even if he could never block out the tone, instead, hung on to Eugene, kissing any of him that he could reach, trying to map the breadth of back, and losing any senses not focused on the man between his legs and covering him with his body once the lazy, ever deepening lunges began. Pressed relentlessly to a third climax that should be impossible, but when Eugene had a mind to milk more than the usual one or two out of him, a third, sometimes even a fourth, in a shorter amount of time than Vincent had ever managed on his own or with another - he was left gasping, or crying out Eugene’s name, something, nonsense maybe, he could just remember that whatever spilled out of his mouth was like the cum that won free along with seizing, twitching, trembling muscles - it felt mind boggling and undeniable. Whatever it was, garnered a helpless groan from Eugene, hips snapping harder against him, faster, for brief heartbeats before stuttering, and heat filling him along with the other man’s release that so quickly followed Vincent’s. 

Weight came down, and Vincent held Eugene, uncaring that he was being squashed, it wouldn’t stay that way for more than a moment or two. 

Panting, Eugene struggled to roll free, to disengage, and Vincent assisted, even though he wouldn’t have minded a few more minutes that way. “That was,” struggling for air, the Englishman laughed without breath, sleepy and pleased, “that was - yes. Quite.” 

Finding a bit of energy and breath of his own, Vincent snorted weakly, “Didn’ know ‘quite’ and ‘yes’ were adjectives.”

Green eyes blinked at him slowly, and for a moment, Vincent could’ve sworn they crossed - unintentionally at that - “Good. Was - good. Y-you’re.” A heaved breath was taken in deep and held before being released, trying to focus, “You, with you is-is good. No comparing an-anymore. _Ever_.” The last was adamant. “Always good, never anything else,” the assertion taking more out of Eugene, probably because it came with arms and legs trying to re-tangle and draw him in closer, and Vincent squirmed, wanting to accommodate.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Presently have ten chapters finished on this...>.> Half-way through ch11. Someone shoot me.

Eugene explained some things, clarifying them, before they even began packing or preparing to head to the airport. It wasn’t a comfortable conversation, it covered things that in Eugene’s world, were simple facts of life. As no longer one of the able-bodied genetic elite, it wouldn’t be considered too strange for him to have an (in)Valid personal attendant, a valet, with him at almost all times. Nor would it be that uncommon for a man in such a position to have his valet be a lover as well. It wasn’t something polite people discussed openly, but would colour _everything_ during interactions with the public, with peers, with the hospitals themselves... Vincent wasn’t expected to talk unless it was for Eugene’s benefit, or to relay some bit of instruction from the other man to someone else. Vincent wanted to balk, hell, he did balk, and Eugene would wince, look away, and try to alternately apologize for how things were, defend them as his being only one person and at least, while distasteful it could be useful to their needs... It was better than the stony calm that Eugene could don with ease when turning into the genetic elite born to aristocracy or at least the very, very well to do - Vincent didn’t like that aspect of Eugene at all. Couldn’t stand it. Made him want to yell, to throw things, to turn his back and walk away. 

Honestly, half the time, Vincent figured it was pointless to go to England, doctors or no. What could they do? And even if there was anything wrong that they could fix, was it really important? Vincent wanted to take his odds, had, up until Eugene offered him access to that institutionalized health care available across an ocean, Vincent was left with nothing to do but accept and place bets on the long odds that he wasn’t going to up and die at just over the age of thirty. Logic won out, though, like it usually did, at least with most things. (Barring the illogical drive and dream that an (in)Valid like himself could attain the stars, of course. Beyond that, logic was what ruled Vincent, his world, his decisions... It was too useful a thing to discard, and could only be willingly subverted in very particular, special cases.) 

And the big thing, even if all the others - logic and making sure about his heart, his body, finding out if there really was or wasn’t anything wrong with him, if it was treatable, getting it treated, all that - were taken into account, was this: Did all those factors, good and so-so reasons, logic, and all that, stack up against the ugliness he would have to face and move through to use the resource Eugene was holding out for him? Could he deal with days, weeks, possibly _months_ of a charade where he was some lesser creature to the man who (beyond feelings of inferiority of the sexual and appearance variety) he had always viewed as an equal? Could he take snide remarks made to him, or - suddenly a worse thought came. Could Vincent handle and sit idly by, like nothing had been done or said, when the ugly portions of Eugene’s native culture, class, and world at large, reared its head and directed it at Eugene? Was all that worth a doctor’s visit?

Staring at the travel papers in his hand, at the packed bags, complete with half of Eugene’s clothes having been altered just enough to fit Vincent, he muttered, “Oh god, what the hell am I doin’?”

“What must be,” Eugene reassured him quietly, checking over a small satchel that came with papers declaring them medical necessity, not that Vincent was aware of what all was in it. The Englishman hadn’t seen fit to divulge, and wasn’t likely to since any prior probing and attempts to find out had been rebuffed. “It’s best to get it out of the way, take any preventative measures, or curative ones, required. And to do it all before anything else is undertaken, since that would be far more difficult to explain, don’t you think?” Dryly, “Can’t very well have you wandering around looking like you’re Jerome, or done up like a doll to resemble him, now can we? That invites either questions we can ill afford at worst, or, at a terrible best, rampant gossip about just how far gone my mind is. And believe it or not, if that got around, that is _one_ condition my parents could use to sue me to relinquish all stocks and assets, by declaring me mentally unfit and thus remanded to their care...” Eugene checked his tie, his vest, his sport coat, hands coasting over himself just so, “Of course, in their care, they’d have access to all my assets, and could dispose of them as they so chose. Including selling it all off for a fiver, then so long as I was in an institution where I was fed, with a roof over my head, they could forget me until I finally wasted away if I couldn’t find a way to kill myself beforehand.”

Suddenly all of this looked even worse, “Eugene -”

“No,” and there was the ice. “If I have to stay on this ball of dirt and am not allowed any easy exits, then you have to as well.”

Brow arching, “Uh, remember where I’m trying to get to.”

Head bouncing, shaking side to side, eyes closed, pained, “Yes, yes, other than well planned out holidays to the stars. You know what I meant - afterwards.” Eyes snapping open, glowering, “There best be an afterwards, mark my words, I’ll not let myself be used so poorly and roughshod, and sell myself so cheaply that I don’t get anything out of the whole thing _afterwards_. Understand?”

Shaking his head, “You say I’m bizzare, you’re the one plannin’ out the next decade or so.”

“Decade?! Oh,” straightening, tapping the armrest of his wheelchair angrily, “ _oh_ I had best be getting more than a decade. I’ve met you more than halfway on plenty of things, I no longer try to see how much liquor it takes to kill me, I eat with regularity beyond whenever I simply remember to, I’ve even consented to being hauled off to the beach for flailing about like it’s anything akin to actual swimming, I don’t carouse at all hours, and I’m not ordering company all the time so I can pretend like I’m human for a few minutes before returning to my attempts at perfecting the art of melancholic brooding and disaffected ennui! Why, I’ve even stopped smoking in bed. Really, you’re probably worse than having a wife!”

Unable to help the laugh, “Me? Worse than a wife? You sure it’s not you who’s the wife in this? Throwin’ things, bein’ subtle, confusin’ the poor dumb husband who doesn’t know what he’s done wrong now...”

“Just you wait, for that I’m going to see if I can find you a woman, and you can compare at your leisure,” growling. There was a pause, suddenly a speculative gleam coming over his beautiful friend, “That could be interesting.”

“Oh jeeze, no, no more complications,” wincing. “Do you know how confused I’d be if you threw a woman into all this? And she’d have to be you know, okay with other things that’re kinda...” Gesturing significantly, “You know, if we go through with everything else. And the fact that it’s... I’m, you, there’s -” fumbling.

Eugene’s face softened, “I suppose the revolving door of paramours I told you about sounds like too much, work, then, doesn’t it? One on one is quite enough, so long as you don’t get bored with your mail order bride.”

“You’re the one who made an order,” rolling his eyes, Vincent snorted at the comparison. “Special delivery and everything, song and dance on your doorstep.”

“So I did,” the light of his smile bright, if brief as it often was. 

German’s arrival came with the expected buzz at the back door, and came complete with the older man actually helping load up their things. 

Vincent felt bad about having been snarly and in a bad mood the last time they had actually spent time together, so, while loading the suitcases since Eugene couldn’t do so, “Hey, German, you know I’m not angry about how long it took to find somebody, right?”

Dark eyes went his way, measuring, “You’d be lying if you said you weren’t frustrated. And I’d be lying if I said my professional pride hadn’t been taking a beating. A year is the longest it’s ever taken before, and that was once, which included making deals I still look back at and hate. But it got the job done. A fixer who can’t do what he says he can, isn’t going to last long. If you slack, you get caught with your pants down around your ankles, and someone takes your business, your clients, and if you pissed the wrong people off, your life, too. I’m a fixer, Vincent, a gatekeeper to the underworld normal people ignore, avoid, or only bump up against for a thrill. My kind stay independent of the mafias and the gangs solely because we’re intermediaries between Valid, (in)Valid, public, and private, open society, and the closed ranks. If you can’t do what you say you can, you’re toast.” Grunting, settling the last chunk of luggage - a heavy ass steamtrunk that took both of them to get in the back of the big reared touring wagon German had arrived with, “Like I said, I looked far and wide, and the second best match I could find, was a Russian, living in Turkey. That’s real far afield, kid. That’s a lot of favours and ears bent. If you wanted to be a cop, a judge, or something else like that, that’s something available right on the doorstep. But you needed the special kind of genesequences, and that’s...well.” Shrugging, “I can stop making inquiries, make it look like I don’t care anymore, that it’s all taken care of -” quieter, “if it’s not, sometimes acting like you don’t want something anymore, or need it, and it’ll come waltzing right on in. Still, my reputation’s no longer in danger...for the moment.”

Leather creaked, Eugene twisting in the back seat, “Are you two quite finished talking like I’m a piece of furniture? And so you can quit worrying so ruddy much about your shadowy reputation, I’m certain I can get the word out back home that you’re a real swell guy, or whatever coin you brokers use to puff yourselves up. If the internet still had those kinds of sites, I’d write you up a glowing review, waxing eloquent on your sunny disposition, and pretty shark black eyes.”

“Just a moment Your Highness,” German shot off, and with a great deal more menace than anything the man had ever directed Vincent’s way. “Vincent’s a client, a freelance employee, and a friend.”

“Friend? You? Have friends?” Eugene needled. “No, no, no, you can’t be his friend, I’m his friend. You’re a facilitator. A go-between. The only friends you’ve got, are greenbacks. I may buy or have rented friends in the past, but a pile of money doesn’t get my cock all up and at’um the way it does your ilk.”

Vincent reached out, grasping German’s shoulder, trying to soothe, worried that Eugene was going too far, “Until you, I actually did consider him about the closest thing to a real friend I had.” Muttering, “I actually understand German, he makes sense. Still holds true that you’re ‘bout the closest thing to a _normal_ friend I’ve got.”

German snorted once, then twice, before it became a legitimate laugh, “You two really are a perfect pair. The Odd Couple, but moreso. Ah!” Smirking, “ _I Love Lucy_ , you guys remember that? Reruns maybe? Oh that’s you both. I almost feel bad for you, Eugene.”

“What? What do you mean?” the Englishman strained in his seat as Vincent finally slid into the back beside him. “What’s he mean, why would he feel bad? What’s _I Love Lucy_? If he means my Aunt Lucille, I think _they_ would be a match made in Heaven. She adores tacky things and people, the only taste she’s got is what’s in her mouth.”

“Old show, real old show,” Vincent hid a snicker, wondering if he was Ricky Ricardo or Lucy. Probably Ricky. He was the responsible one, it was Lucy always up to shenanigans, causing problems and all hell to break loose. “Used to be filmed in front of a live audience, great timing between Lucy and Ricky, lots of comedy, physical kinds and lots of situational and verbal sparring. They played off of one another, and set the tone for all the sitcoms that came after, I guess. I heard they still use the recordings of the laughter of the guests for all kinds of shows these days, even what...however many decades later? Kinda creepy if you think about it...”

“All the people on the laugh track are dead,” German agreed, pointing the big nose of the wagon towards the highway. “If that’s not enough to send a chill down your back when you hear that tincan laughter, then you’re made of sterner stuff than I am.”

“Brilliant, bloody brilliant, you Yankees are all mad,” Eugene snorted, disbelieving.

Before the Englishman could settle in to needle German again, Vincent draped an arm over the back of the seat. The motion startled Eugene, causing a long look, before settling in and back. There wouldn’t be much contact on the flight, no matter how short it was, and there would be even less in public, not even a stolen touch here or there. Only in absolute private could anything other than the roles that Eugene mapped out for them to play be on display, even a little bit. Vincent would take what he could get, while he still could.

XXX

The flight was...weird. Fast. Very fast. Not like going to space, fast, but they did exit atmo briefly, as was the way all long distance flight went these days, the small vessels slingshotting and using gravity instead of huge payloads of outdated petrol. When Vincent had been a kid, long distance jump flights were meant for crossing oceans or major continents, not going from one state to another. These days, with the refining of the space corporations taking over flight operations that weren’t of the old fashioned airliner type, things had begun to change. Rapid, long distance travel was a lucrative business, and funded space corps’ other ventures that pushed the boundaries of where and how humans could go into the reaches. There were small, private craft meant to cater to elite clientele that could have been what German hired for them, but the man had apologized without out and out saying sorry, by explaining that his contacts weren’t the pilots of such private craft, but of the middle class variety. So, sitting in a capsule like flight pod, in seats that were actually too comfortable, and thus, made Vincent very uncomfortable, they travelled with other trans-continental and transatlantic travelers. Not many, not like what would be crammed into the airlines of yesterday, that still ran today, as the lowest cost method for those unable to afford the chance to not be crammed shoulder to shoulder in spaces half the size of postage stamps like cattle to get from one distant place to another. 

Eugene was in one of the very few handicapped concessionary slots, his wheelchair locked into the space a seat would generally be. Others on board around them studiously didn’t look at the Englishman, his wheelchair, or anything in his direction...except from the corners of their eyes. And Vincent felt them looking at him too, staring askance. For once he didn’t sense gazes tripping and focusing on his own glasses - because he wasn’t wearing them. For the first time in his life, he could see without the wireframes fixed on his face announcing his myopia to the world and his all but subhuman genes. Instead, the looks were hidden curiosity, pity, that what they were suddenly all assuming was a Valid member of society, had to be carting around a clearly no longer Valid member of their world. Or some other strange notions. Like perhaps they thought Vincent was a Valid taking care of an (in)Valid, because the disability could be genetic, or who knew what else other permutations of thought were tumbling around in those heads. 

Vincent had always been aware of what other people saw when looking at him, knew what conclusions they could come to, even if he had managed to hide his myopia for a few moments. And he had grown inured to those things. He didn’t like them, but he couldn’t let that sort of shit affect him. But now, suddenly, he was thinking about what those others saw when looking at Eugene. Or, more precisely, when comparing a (possibly) Valid person such as himself with (possibly-formerly) Valid as Eugene stuck in a wheelchair. And he wanted to snarl. He wanted to stand between Eugene, he wanted to lecture them all, ask them what the fuck was wrong with them that they were so offended, confused, by someone not being the absolute example of perfection. To ask them what their own human frailties were... To pry that information out of each and every single person so carefully schooling their features, and force feed each bit back to them.

Softly, for his ears only, masked by leaning down to grab a book from the ‘medical’ satchel, “Let it go, Vincent. Your face’ll get stuck that way and scare the natives. And they’re far worse.”

Muttering, “I’m not locked in a tin can with them.”

“When you take your holiday,” chin subtly jerking skyward, “you’ll be locked on a tin can with the absolute worst of the worst. Best get used to it before you’re trapped.” Brighter, more warmly, “Come, you didn’t finish telling me about _I Love Lucy_ and it’s creepy laugh track. And have you ever heard of _Monty Python’s Flying Circus_? Or perhaps _Are You Being Served_? God, they were awful and risque, before that was all banned to the grownups only channels... At least they still make Masterpiece Theatre...”

XXX

It wasn’t a hotel. Hotels had elevators. _Lifts, that’s what they call ‘um here._ German’s local contact had at least seen to getting their luggage portered up to the third floor apartment, but that still left something to be desired. He wanted to complain. Thought he should complain, should say something, but a tight shake of Eugene’s head, and Vincent bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Eugene only used one cane, much to Vincent’s horror, though each step was taken with deliberate and careful state. Any moment, Vincent was ready to reach out and catch him, terrified of what this was doing to the other man’s body. 

Lola, their contact, fixer maybe, or some underling, Vincent didn’t know, watched through heavily made up eyes, and lashes so thick he didn’t know how they could possibly be real, “The Olympics take it out of a man, looks like. Too bad, I always heard things about swimmers.” 

“Most of which are true, lovely,” Eugene quipped. “It’s the being hit by a car afterwards that puts a damper in a man’s spirits. So sorry to be taking my time, but,” shrugging, a nasty grin shot over his shoulder in Lola’s direction, “you’ll just have to enjoy the view, it’s quite nice I’ve been told.”

Vincent grimaced, again, biting his tongue, glad he was actually pulling up the rear-rear on this, the last landing. It allowed him to bite the side of his wrist, too, even if it left him drowning in whatever Lola had doused herself with. An image of grabbing her by the loud blue coat tails that hung over the ass of the so tight it left utterly nothing to the imagination of her pencil skirt, and yanking hard enough so she fell down the stairs, came unbidden, and Vincent began calculating pi to keep from acting on the rare, utterly irrational impulse.

“If a body’s into that sorta thing, sure,” a throaty laugh, and she reached out, lightly swatting Eugene’s rump like she had any right to do so. Even Vincent knew that was impossibly rude. “I never did see the draw, but I’ve girls who swear that bending a man over and making him take it, puts blokes in their place, with a quickness. Maybe one day when I’m bored I’ll test the theory out.”

Finally they reached the apartment, Lola squirming around and between he and Eugene as though there was a great deal less space in the hallway than there was. Eugene handled waiting patiently, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but Vincent... For all the diagnostic delivery room obstetrician-geneticist-surgeon had read off that he was going to be mentally unstable, prone to mania, violent outbursts, and the like, Vincent hadn’t ever really been that way in his whole life. But right now, oh _right now._

“It’ll be with someone else, sorry to disappoint, you again,” Eugene didn’t sound sorry at all, watching the keycards be employed, unlocking what would apparently be their London residence, “I tend to be very picky about certain things, my lovely. Particularly who I let pitch, and, much as I am in awe of your vast, heaving -” a teasing, playful, and yet utterly disinterested glance at the cleavage that was on display, “assets, I’m partial to broad shoulders. And assets of a very different variety, less bountiful and round, and there’s no device that can properly replicate all that, no matter what bells and whistles are tacked on.”

A theatrical sigh, and Lola breezed in, “All the pretty ones are bloody nancy-boys, I’ve been saying it for years. Well then, I suppose I’ll make do with a bit of a tour -” 

Vincent had finally gotten himself together enough to look around, and fuck whatever Eugene said, “Not good enough.” Eugene began to make motions, but Vincent pretended to not see, “German said you were about as reliable as himself. And he’s always come through, even if if it took some time. Quality takes time, this -” going to the nearest window, and opening the old blinds, “was come up with as an afterthought. Not real good at inspirin’ any confidence here.” Before Lola, who seemed startled, or Eugene, who was masking his wincing, could do anything, he listed, “Third floor, when German informed you _weeks_ ago that stairs weren’t acceptable. The last time this place was inhabited by anythin’ other than vermin -” not specifying human or animal, let them imagine which he meant, “was back at the start of the bombings from World War Two. It’s nowhere near where we need it to be, either, and there’s public transport right across the street, yeah, sure, but do we look like the kinds of dudes that won’t get someone thinking about a mugging? I don’t know how you do things in your neck of the woods, lady, but fixers in my end of town, earn their fees without a song and a jiggle for a giggle.”

Lola stared at him hard, in that moment, resembling the knife edged ugliness that German showed time to time. Vincent didn’t back down, didn’t flinch. Just matched her. And waited. Eugene had enough experience to at least be quiet at this point, even if he’d tried to avert the whole confrontation in the first place, but once it started, the cool mask slipped into place the one time Lola glanced his way to see if her fellow Brit was going to muzzle the yappy Yank.

The tableau held a moment longer, and then Lola spat on the floorboards, in a spot that didn’t have a rug over it the way some of the apartment did, “German told me you boys had mouths on you. I thought he meant the wastrel, guess he meant you, too.”

“I’ll remember to bring him a gift basket sayin’ thank you,” Vincent replied, still waiting. “Sure he’d appreciate it a lot more than the last time I almost put him through a wall when he sprung somethin’ on me without warnin’.” He was fudging, definitely fudging. Throwing a book and being ready to throw a punch wasn’t putting anybody through a wall. Lola didn’t know that, though. “I don’t like surprises, and bein’ disappointed like this, it’s real surprising.”

Lola glanced again in Eugene’s direction, eyes narrowing, shifting in place, “Hmph.”

Pressing, “Are you, or aren’t you, a fixer with a reputation that can be trusted at least to try and pretend to match up to some American city type?”

The Englishwoman lifted her wrist, and made a call, all the while staring at him. “German.”

“Lola, have my friends arrived and settled in yet?” the familiar voice on the other end of the line filled the room.

“It seems there’s some question to the accommodations offered,” tone even, brittle, but even, hard, unbudging, but knowing she had to give something. “The pretty one’s congenial enough about it, but the other one -”

Snickering, “That’s a new one, unless someone slapped a pound of makeup on him, Vincent’s nobody’s idea of pretty.”

“As I said, the pretty one’s just fine, it’s the other one that’s got a mouth,” softly. 

That brought silence, a long, long silence. No sound but what came from outside, and there was a lot of it. But otherwise, the proverbial pin could drop. “ _Vincent_ is the one unhappy? You didn’t sneak up behind him, did you? I thought you were familiar enough with the types of guys that you don’t do that to, that you would know better not to try that. I take no responsibility if you, or someone else, gets a knife in their gut because they made a rookie fuckup for the ages..”

“No, nothin’ like that,” Vincent spoke up finally, arms crossed. “But thanks for warnin’ her on that front at least, don’t like bein’ jumpy in new places, with new people.”

“Alright, alright,” German aiming for mild, reasonable, somewhat placating. “No blood’s been spilt, so anything else, it’s just a very minor misunderstanding.” Mumbling to himself, “God, I was expecting to get an earful about Morrow, not Vincent, he’s the reasonable one usually.”

Vincent kept an eye on Eugene, noting how he slowly shifted, trying to ease and balance his weight, and heaved a silent sigh of relief when he leaned back against the nearest counter, the picture of unconcerned - but at least it meant that some of the weight was off of legs no longer suited to carrying it unaided. “Third floor, fourth if you count the fact that to get into the buildin’, we hafta go up from a different alley that’s twenty steps down below the other streets the buildin’s on. This ain’t no brownstone set of steps, either. Full flight to get to street level, where there’s no entrance, then three more up to the apartment. It’s worse than the place we used to meet up was, with its one butt kitchen, half a counter and a hotplate, it was better than this dump. I’m not lookin’ for the Ritz Carlton, so I could get over that, if it was near the places on our itinerary, and if the public transport stop outside wasn’t the kind where bottom feeders would settle for whatever pocket change they could find on your corpse. We were told that it was all copasetic, all on the up and up -”

“Vincent, I’m sorry to hear that,” German cut over him finally. “And disappointed. I’ll see what I can find on short notice, and check through the appropriate channels fast as I -”

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Lola ground out, as though the woman thought German would be backing her. Boy was she disappointed. “You know how things go, German. If they don’t know better than to settle for less, why roll out the red carpet?”

“Different business model, different clientele,” the shrug unseen, across an ocean, and many miles of land in between. “So, if this is straightened out, I’ll be waiting to hear that it remains satisfactory. Boys, I’m glad you arrived safely, bit of unpleasantness aside, I’ll be sure to make it up to you when you return. Lola,” voice dropping down and the woman didn’t lower the volume fast enough for Vincent to not catch the last, “don’t fuckin’ screw my clients, I don’t like it.”

The fixer’s body language hadn’t eased up, in fact it was even more tense once she hung up. “Can’t blame a lady for trying.”

“If you were a lady, I wouldn’t have to,” Vincent went to the nearest luggage, searching for Eugene’s other cane. Cuttingly, once he’d handed off the cane, “Here you’ve been drillin’ me in what’s polite and local etiquette, you’ve bamboozled me, Eugene. The English aren’t anywhere near as irritatingly polite as you led me to believe. You told me it’d be painful, they’re so awkward with it.”

“Different class, mate,” Lola shrugged, tapping out messages on a larger, palm sized mobile. “He’s from the set you can’t even fart without falling all over yourself, all horrified at a bodily function. I’m guttersnipe, through and through. We’re only polite when we’re getting close enough to cut or swindle you.” Satisfied by whatever response she received, the palm sized mobile was stuffed down her coat-blouse front, “In some places, that mouth of yours’d get you in trouble, a heap of it, but it’d also get you out if you can actually back it up in spite of those fancy threads you’re wearing. Others, you’d best do well to follow your pretty boy’s lead, gutterfolk will rough you up, kill you or mug ya, but his kind...” She shrugged, the smile not very pleasant, “They bring in the law if they just wanna get you out of the way, or see you publically humiliated. If they really take a disliking to you, they deal with you privately, and if you’re still breathing and with all your faculties intact after, it won’t matter who you turn to to see justice, it won’t ever come. They call themselves the cream, because it rises to the top, and they’re all sweet on the idea. Well so does pond scum, mate, that’s the facts, and ones they’re too dirty blind to see if they even wanted to open their eyes and look.”

Eugene grunted, “I’m fairly well aware of how my kind are, thank you kindly. They’re not going to bother with Vincent beyond your level of hazing. He’s not the fallen one, I am. Now, how much longer must we wait for this farce of flexing social and intellectual muscles of reputation and wit to end? I’m _bored_ with it.” 

Vincent ignored Eugene’s intent to remain standing under his own power, and slipped an arm around his waist, yanking the swimmer’s arm over his shoulder, “Yeah, can’t say as I blame ya.”

Lola continued to watch, head cocking, curious or seeing something she didn’t understand, or didn’t think belonged where she had found it, “You really are that broken, huh.” Chair scraped and was twisted and shoved their way, “Take a load off, then. Men’s pride stinks worse than Italian maggot cheese, and I get enough of the former in my line of work, and three or four times too many of the latter, too.” She paced around them once as Vincent ignored Eugene’s fussy attempts at growling as he helped him settle in the seat comfortably, waiting for her men to come and fetch their belongings, so that she could then lead he and Eugene wherever the improved accommodations supposedly existed. “Damn my eyes, but you two actually care about each other, hah! That’s a first.”

“Have a care yourself,” Eugene’s up until then rather blunted ire rearing briefly. 

“Or what?” she taunted. “You’re not in good with your classmates, or you’re staying under their radar so long as you got that Yank with you or until he at least learns how to play his role in a way to not pique their interest. So you can’t threaten me with those. And your lad’s not going to do anything -”

“Of that, I wouldn’t wager on,” dryly. “Truly I wouldn’t. There’s things about him that I don’t know, but I’ve learned well enough over the years, that it’s the ones you least expect to get...excitable, that can be the nastiest. They used to say, before sequencing became the norm and even the uteroes have selectively chosen to breed with those who don’t bear that ghastly tendency - that it’s the quiet ones to watch out for. And Vincent tends to be very quiet on most things.”

Tired of it, Vincent huffed, “Okay, done, time out.” Making a big T with his hands. “You’re right, all this dick waving’s boring. I don’t want to back anything up with violence, but will. Eugene doesn’t want to back anything up with enough verbal venom to make a body crave a beatin’ instead, or favours, or clout, or so-and-so. We’re here, there’s a service paid for, the service is in process of being seen to so it can be provided, and let’s all just pretend we haven’t been assholes for the last hour or so, alright? I’m tired, you’re tired, everybody’s cranky, forgettin’ their manners and whatever their moms taught them. So I vote that we all act like we haven’t been actin’ like godless heathens, and instead, from here on out, act like we’re capable of extending some basic human courtesy to one another, no strings attached, for however long this shit’s gotta last. Christ, you’d think you people never had any other entertainment sometimes.”

Eugene sighed, face buried in palm, shaking his head, other hand reaching out to pat his back, conciliatory and aggravated. Lola...Lola just stared. And then threw her head back, laughing, laughing and laughing, great peals of it, until she was gasping, doubled over, and scrambling for a chair.

“If you ever get bored with that pretty boy of yours, mate, you come my way, and I’ll make you a rich, happy man,” gasping. “If you’re not one of a kind... Unless there’s more like you across the way? I could use a man like you between my legs, at my side, and maybe try trusting at my back.”

Recoiling, not at the idea of a woman, but of Lola specifically - “Thanks I guess, but I’ll pass.”

Lamenting, “Why’re all the good ones gay?”

XXX

There were stairs. Only one half flight, though. It was doable. And there was also a ramp to some sort of courtyard bit that Eugene called a ‘garden’, but it was just paving stones, a bench, a four by four patch of grass, and a few bushes that grew up big on all sides of the area, tall and bushy enough to make for some added privacy. To Vincent, it was a patio with some crap crowding it. Must be some Londoner way of fooling themselves into thinking they had a bit of nature around them in the concrete jungle unless rich enough to actually afford some spot near one of the copious parks Eugene told him about. Whatever, it was quiet, startlingly so, on the bit of outdoor that the big, French double doors opened onto from the living room of their apartment. Nice spot to try and wake up his brain in the mornings with a cup of coffee or tea.

The apartment was kind of nice...except the sky was always grey, the air reeked of the smog of more than two thousand years, and if there wasn’t at least a steady, disheartening, demoralizing drizzle for an hour every day... But the place was small, much smaller than the condo he shared with Eugene back in America, still miles bigger than his old little apartment that he’d lived in up until Eugene convincing him to move in with him full time. One bedroom, one bath, but the kitchen was a kitchen, the living room was big enough for he and Eugene to spread out or share a sofa, or read books, and there was even a television that broadcast public and private channels. The computer console with real internet access was the treat, even if Eugene claimed it was the decently sized tub, their hoped for luxuries were different since they were different people. Eugene wanted tub and bed, Vincent wanted computer and kitchen.

Cracking knuckles before settling in to scour and go falling down the electric rabbit hole, Vincent beamed in Eugene’s direction where he sat on the pewter blue-grey couch, a small lapdesk over his thighs, “The last time I had access to a private computer, it was because I was issued one for grad school when I went the second and third time. Couldn’t do my research and papers without it properly. Otherwise, public libraries are all I’ve been able to get in _years._ Wrote more than one thesis that way, and even a full dissertation, which wasn’t easy, just made me glad I’m sciences and maths, and not liberal arts - I hear their dissertations can run thousands of pages.”

Eugene peered up at him from whatever ledger he was working in, or was he letter writing - the angle made it hard to tell, “Avoid porn sites, they’re still monitored here unless you’ve got an unblocker. Otherwise, you might find the Royal Astronomical Society a decent starting place. There’s a few conservatory societies that are on the open ‘net as well, if you’re feeling into the literary or historical things that aren’t straight STEM.” Wincing, “Whatever you do, if you go to one of the video-music-blogger sites, for any affection you may bear me, use headphones...and if there aren’t any in this flat, then we’ll just have to get you some. I’ve managed to avoid whatever the current mode of Britpop there is for the last few years, and I’d like very much to keep it that way.”

Biting his thumb and flicking at Eugene, refusing to let the wash of advice dull his excitement, “Yeah-yeah, I hear ya. I bite my thumb at them, which is a disgrace to them if they bear it and all’a that. Wet blanket.” Laughing, “C’mon, help me out here, I need a question to plug in. Somethin’ weird.”

“Between the two, which is swifter - the African or the European swallow while weighted with a coconut?” a soft sigh, but it was amused, it had to be, Vincent caught the peep of green eyes cast his way, could see the sparkle of them in the decorative mirror that hung over the computer terminal. 

“What?” but he plugged in the strange request. And a bunch of absurd looking videos cropped up. Forgetting Eugene's’ request for no audio stuff blaring, Vincent clicked the first one that the search query turned up. “What the...hell...”

In short order, a cultural exchange was on. Or maybe that’s not what it was. Eugene was behind him, rump planted on an oversized ottoman (Vincent thought it was a backless chair, or some freaky coffee table that was upholstered for some reason - ottomans were for feet, not sitting) chin over his shoulder, occasionally reaching to the keyboard to type something in that Vincent didn’t catch. End result - gasping for laughter, head coming down to rest on the desk, and Vincent couldn’t stop. Something about a dead bird sold, another about some old lady in the women’s section of a clothing store ranting on about her ‘puuuusssiii’ when she was just talking about a poor, scraggly cat... 

Trying to breathe, wheezing, hand scrabbling for whatever stiff drink Eugene had poured hours earlier, Vincent downed it thirstily, and gasped a few more times at the burn, but damn, he needed to catch his breath. Thumping himself on the chest, “Oh god, Eugene...”

“Well you weren’t supposed to shotgun it like I do, I’ve had years of training!” Eugene protested, plucking the glass from his hand and setting it aside. “Now you’ve gone and hurt yourself.”

“Wha-no, no, not that, though,” fist to his mouth, muffling a small burp, “I don’t care how expensive that is, it needs ice at least. Mixer preferably.”

“Next time, I’ll make sure to add icy flotation devices and fizzy training wheels to your dip into the alcohol pool,” sniffing, and returning to lean back over his shoulder, arms loosely around him, so that fresh keystrokes could be had. 

Breath finally caught, patting his chest a few more times, “You know, it’s a shame that they don’t make things like that anymore. We’re more than a quarter way through the twenty-first century, and nothing that’s come out since I’ve been born that I know of, has been anythin’ like _that_. I can’t decide if it’s risque, or what... And you said that these shows, they were considered alright for family viewing?”

“According to my nanny, yes,” grunting. “And my archival and historical digging. Had to have some focus of study when at Cambridge, even if I was really there for the swim team prestige, and to fulfill my social obligation to go to uni. I vacillated between modern history of the last two centuries, and finance. Finance got me in the classes with...” a shrug was felt, and Vincent knew who would’ve caught Eugene’s attention long enough to be locked into that degree. “The literary tradition and its social reflections, another potential avenue of study. I had figured that I would do that for my graduate studies, if I had stuck with the recent modern history track. But...”

Reaching back, cupping Eugene’s head, “If you hadn’t gone finance, you wouldn’t have been in the States probably. And if you hadn’t done finance, you wouldn’t have had enough of it rub off that some common sense intruded and made you see to takin’ steps to protect yourself - even from your family. Bad stuff, good stuff. Good stuff that wouldn’t have happened at all, the bad stuff could’ve come later anyways.” Letting his hand fall away, tracing one of the jutting bones of Eugene’s left wrist, “The literary and history, it’s not going anywhere, you can learn it, study it, write as many treatise and observations a you want. Enroll back into school, maybe a little one, but still, somethin’ to work the brain, and be a route to share whatever it is you come up with for a dissertation...get it published. Write some journal articles, who knows? You don’t hafta worry about your family stickin’ their noses where they don’t belong, in that case, right?”

“Hush,” Eugene admonished quietly. “You’re doing that agonizingly kind and sweet thing you do, and it’s embarrassing when I go all to pieces for it. It’ll make me do something absolutely silly and useless like write sonnets or something equally tawdry, I used to be quite passable, my dirty limericks were better, you’d probably prefer those far more. I do so hate it when I get flustered and do things contrary to my customary _modus operandi_ , it makes me all unreasonable. And you hate it when I’m unreasonable.” Stressing, “ _I_ hate it when I’m unreasonable, just so you know. Actually, let’s just have sex. Phenomenal sex, right here, and forget about any of that useless emotional stuff where I turn into the sentimental tit.”

Chuckling, squeezing Eugene’s wrist, head tipped back so they were cheek to cheek, “Pretty sure I’m the one you called a sentimental tit, more than once, too. Also a ‘sweet boy’. M’pretty certain I’m older’n you, just so you know.”

“Year you were born, yes, around two years difference,” agreeing straight away. “But not conception-wise! Lord and Lady Morrow designed my egg thirty-six years ago, and waited until their nice and stately thirties, and until their parents were old enough that they couldn’t try to move in and rule them directly still, before finally planting me in Mummy’s frigid womb a full decade after designing me. After a bit of double-checking that my zygote hadn’t lost any of its specialness over the decade, they might have added something here or there at the last second for all I know, I really should sue for those medical records, they’re mine by rights... Nobody deserves a blueprint, step by step guide on how to make another one of me, except me.” Sniffing, “They probably kept the spare eggs too. I wonder if they’ve found a surrogate to carry at least one of them to delivery, yet? Anything to make sure that I’ve no chance to inherit. Not beyond what law dictates, which...is a few things, I suppose, but nothing of what they consider real value. Wouldn’t be surprised if they bought something in the States of appropriate, law mandated value, to bequeath to me, to avoid having to give up anything ‘proper’ and on pure English soil.”

Making a face, “Again, gotta say it again, know I said it before, but this really bears repeatin’ - your family’s fucked up.” Neck craning to catch Eugene’s eye, “Dunno how you turned out as perfect as you did, because no gene can counteract bein’ raised in that sorta house full’a the deranged and disturbed. However it happened, I’m glad that you’re you, wouldn’t know what to do with you if you weren’t. _Definitely_ wouldn’t be here in England, biting my tongue all the time when people are assholes...”

The Englishman hummed, acquiescing, agreeing, something, just not speaking. The fingers in his hair were words enough. The lips that brushed over the side of his jaw, were dialogue of their own kind. The briefness of it, the casualness of it, the easiness, the naturalness... The way it made Vincent feel. That was language, that was words on a page. He was certain he could read those words, but sometimes, not so certain...right now, it was clear as it needed to be. 

More videos, and Vincent found himself sucked down for more laughter, the weight of Eugene’s chin on his shoulder, the occasional humming laugh from the other man, followed by a kiss to the corner of his jaw...England wasn’t so bad right then.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only just now noticed I had totally fucked up and double posted ch7, and not actually proper ch8. 01/09/2017, and I'm finally correcting it. *sigh*

The doctor that Eugene accompanied him to, also with one of Lola’s assistants tagging along as some sort of decoy or assist- girl looked like a copy of the other woman, but softer, younger, less jaded, at least until Vincent got a good look in her eye - took in the three of them sitting in her office, with impersonal interest. Heather, posing as Vincent’s (in)Valid girlfriend, her arm threaded through his, their fingers entwined, and gone was any hint of jaded, all that remained was fretful concern. Eugene, as his employer, and the one upon who his ‘working’ visa depended, sat separately in his own wheelchair, every inch the laid low lordling, but still proud and of social respectability, handicap notwithstanding. And stuck on the small loveseat with Heather, was Vincent. A role, a new role, a different one, one that had little bearing in the guise that Eugene had been slowly instructing him in, at least to be able to move through public without any ripples - was taken on. It chafed, like a new set of shoes that hadn’t been broken in, and hopefully, this particular role would be thrown out as improper fit or not something worth keeping, as soon as possible, before it could be broken in and become familiar habit.

“For someone with these conditions,” a tapered, trim and unvarnished nail at the end of a deep ebony finger went down the printed off list that had been assigned and predicted at Vincent’s birth, “you appear amazingly hale. The psychological illness predispositions are harder to observe in just a few minutes, but...anxiety, some hyperactivity, those are fairly common and comparatively mild disorders, especially with the blaring threat of schizophrenia, bipolar, mania, all shouting that they’re as likely, or more, to be present. If those are present, they can be managed, and we will work our way towards that. It’s your physical body that is supposedly in the most danger, according to this list, but...” A critical eye scanned him, and had been scanning his every move since she watched them walk towards her private office from the easily seen through the one-way glass window separating the waiting room from her private space. “From my position here, so far, without having any look under your bonnet so to speak, or hooking you to machines, I’d be astonished if you were anywhere near as ill as this diagnostic probability list threatens, as you are the outward picture of above average health.”

Her accent was one Vincent didn’t recognize, but the name on the placard sounded like it might originate somewhere in Africa, which was a continent with dozens of countries, and three or four times as many languages, and as for ethnic groups - hundreds maybe, Vincent was geographically aware enough to know he had no expertise, and only a big ball of ignorance in that department. Whether or not the doctor was from there or not, he couldn’t even begin to guess. He was mostly still trying to grapple with the fact that she was looking at him like a patient, like a human being worth treating. 

“Ah-umn,” shifting in the deep seat, “I’ve done what I can on my own. Watch my diet, work out, take care of myself...you know, work with what’s available, right?”

“Vince’s always pushing his limits,” Heather interjected, all soft, all worried, and he felt her looking at him, and he hoped he didn’t twitch when she rest her cheek on his shoulder. “But he always stops before he hurts himself. I don’t know how he does it,” a thread of pride weaving through, “but he does!”

Eugene added his own two cents, the voice of absolute calm and reason, void of any overly enthused and affectionate leanings, “I’ve supervised his workout routines, pointed him in different directions when I thought best, after all, I wasn’t always the type to sit pretty, and trained for years for the Olympics. Coached younger swimmers in the local league... I’m versed and experienced enough to identify dangerous habits, distress, or if a body’s being pushed too far. Other than when he’s gone beyond his limits against the warnings of myself or his body, or the occasional being caught laughing over something followed swiftly by more humour overtaking him - I’ve never seen any evidence of the dire warnings of heart conditions and weakness.” Brows coming down as he leaned forward slightly, the soft, worn leather of the wheelchair whispering against virgin wool, “Out of curiosity, I’ve hooked him up to a basic bioreading machine, and listened to his heart. There’s a hiccup every dozen or more beats when he’s rested. When he exerts himself, it’s about twice as often...”

“And when he’s pushed himself too far?” asking, brow arched high, then focusing on Heather. “Biomachine’s don’t fit in the bedroom very well.”

Heather blushed, “Umn, no, no they don’t. Bu-but umn, he’s fine then, just tired, normal tired, all men get tired -” stammering, eyes widening and casting a look Eugene’s way and then to Vincent, “umn...”

A smile twitched and bloomed over the sumptuous mouth, making the doctor warm and human, and Vincent shifted uncomfortably, aware of how beautiful she was suddenly. It wasn’t like he was interested! Or a hormonal teen! Jeeze. Fear boners, excitement boners, anger boners even...those were all normal things, and lest he forget, Random Boner Because the Wind Blew. Normal. Noticing a beautiful doctor who was acting as though he were a normal human being, with a bright, kind smile... That may deserve the irritation of a full salute, but he could really, really do without pitching a tent. 

“ _All_ men are tired after,” she reassured, the smile not diming in the least. “All of them. The geneticists haven’t figured that one out, yet, but I think it’s because men don’t see it as much of a problem. In their realities, everybody falls asleep after. So...” gaze swinging back to him, “Sex life is healthy it sounds like. And your workout routine is approved by an Olympian - not that that should be a vote in your favour, I’ve seen what those people do to themselves - when training, when their careers are on track, and after their careers are over. Long after they’re over. Even the best genesequenced Valid that’s done that to their bodies for so long, is going to be left with one very mangled body in the long run. The lucky ones find their breaking point early, and leave that madness behind. The unlucky ones...five, ten years of fame, and sixty to eighty years of pain. It’s not worth it.” Tutting, “If you’ve been condoning him working on that sort of level...”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” firmly. “Even I don’t dream of it anymore. Seems I reached my breaking point and left it, now doesn’t it? No, Vincent does the amount of exercise recommended for a man trying to make himself as realistically healthy as he can, and maintain that, nothing more.”

“As long as it stays that way,” she admonished. “No matter what I find, you aren’t to exceed that recommendation, do you understand Mr. Freeman?”

“Ah-yes,” nodding once, perplexed.

“Because, worst case scenario, we will be growing you a new heart, and switching out the old one, possibly a kidney, or lungs, it very much depends on how much damage is there, how much of it is due to misshaping, or collateral damage from another portion of your organs not operating the way evolution intended them to,” she explained standing up, unfolding herself gracefully. “If I don’t think you can take care of any replacement, then we won’t be taking that drastic and involved step, and will instead use the scaled back options available. _If_ it’s necessary,” she reiterated. “From the looks of you outwardly, and the two outside observers, I find it difficult to consider this,” reaching down to her desk and tapping the list, “dire list of probabilities has come to pass completely. The law of percentages says the odds aren’t the most favourable, but they aren’t a hundred percent either. And even if they were, until I see hard evidence beyond a genome study indicating probabilities more than a quarter of a century old, I won’t be writing you off as a pointless cause with little real chance of meaningful life even with whatever intervention is possible with today’s technologies.” 

Vincent sat back heavily, everything flowing out of him like water, staring at her, “I grew up believin’ what everyone said, how everyone treated me - like I was chronically ill, even if I didn’t feel sick. When I left home, an-and began to do what I could on my own, it hurt, yeah, and I pushed myself until I thought I’d die, but I didn’t, and I didn’t feel ill. Just tired, worn out, sore, like I’d had a good workout. Didn’t recognize it as that for a long time... But-” Realizing he was rambling, he shook his head, “They said I was sick, that’s it, that’s all, just from the list, and never bothered to look, even a little bit. I don’t feel sick, ma’am. Maybe I could be better, but I don’t feel...I don’t feel like a meat popsicle with a slew of pieces ready to fall off or fail me at the first chance.”

The smile was proud, approving, as she leaned back against her desk, arms crossing, “Good. That’s the sort of thing I live to hear. That a person has meaningful employment, fulfilling relationships with others to share their lives with, and a willingness to not see themselves as irreparably broken and sick, even if they aren’t as healthy as someone else may be. You want to be healthy, to live your life on your own terms, and not be tied down by anything that could be prevented, fixed, or at least finally struck off a list of fears to haunt your sleep.” Another nod, “You’re the kind of person preventative and corrective medicine is particularly useful for when it’s required. Now, that’s all for today’s visit, it was a pleasure meeting you three. Alois at the front desk will schedule your full check-up, and give you a list of pertinent instructions for the pre-checkup labs I’ll be ordering.” She held out her hand to each of them in turn, first to Vincent, then Heather, and then Eugene, shaking once, firmly, securely, “I look forward to our working together to ensure your good health.”

After, Vincent was shaking, Heather holding him up, and Eugene was right beside him in the wheelchair, keeping pace, but they were out in public, and nothing more could be had. “I-I need, is there somewhere, I gotta siddown...”

“Here,” Heather quickly guided him to one of the side paths that dotted the medical complex. It wasn’t much privacy, but it was better than the open sidewalks. “Here, you sit, should I call for a cab?”

Hanging his head, tucking it between his knees, Vincent schooled his breathing, “N-nah, I’m, I’m alright, I just -” Eugene’s touch was warm, familiar, both hands smoothing circles over his back, “it’s a lot. It’s different back home.” Croaking, “Ill or not, broken or not, fixable or nothin’ wrong, oh-god...it’s answers, it’s answers after always hearin’ go away, no, he’s trash, don’t bother...”

Eugene’s arms worked around him, tugging him up enough so his face was in the Englishman’s lap, fingers carding through his hair, “Give us a bit. He’ll be alright.”

Heather plunked down on the bench beside him, “Nuh-uh, Lola was clear as crystal that I wasn’t to leave you blokes on your lonesomes until you were back snug in your flat. And to be ready to play my part in the doc’s office every day if I have to. I’m a nice (in)Valid girlfriend, to an equally nice (in)Valid boyfriend, and if I know what’s good for me, then that’s my life every second in public, come hell or high water. Tour guide and camouflage to cover up so people don’t notice, day to day, or ones with a nastier bent looking for some non-normies to target. Whatever it takes to keep you two safe, happy, and out of her hair as fast as possible, with as little rocking of boats as can managed, that’s my job, and so long as you two don’t want to get _too_ kinky with any requests, I’m plenty happy to see to it.”

He huffed a laugh, muffled in Eugene’s navy blue sweater, “She shoulda sent you to pick us up and take us to that roach infested walkup. You I wouldn’t have snarled at.”

“By the second set of stairs,” Eugene opined, “I’m fairly certain you would’ve been ready to snarl at a four hundred pound angry gorilla, risks be damned. Probably would’ve snarled at German, even.”

“You forgot that I’ve done that?” the dizziness and shakiness had eased up. He still felt light headed, felt like his head was stuffed with cotton. Shock, that’s what it was, he was in shock, wasn’t he? Mild shock, but shock. Adrenal response to certain stimuli, being overwhelmed, yep, mild shock. If it was bad, he’d be barfing and freezing, and there would be no budging him until he warmed up. “Threw a book at him, a punch, snarled more than once, and-and, I’ve cussed him out. Insulted him without sounding like it’s being dressed up the way you do, prim, proper, and like only tasteless people could take offense at whatever mean you spit out at them.”

Loud sigh, “Oh what am I to do with you, darling? I’m the one who’s supposed to _sound_ reasonable, you’re supposed to be the one who actually _is_ reasonable. Not going all caveman alpha male over the silliest little things.”

“You hauled your ass up four flights - _four_ flights - of stairs with only one cane, like you had something to prove,” Vincent grumbled, finally straightening up, focusing on something easy, something not shocking, something that didn’t threaten to leave him weeping at the opportunity his mother would have killed to provide him with, the one both his parents had struggled to somehow scrimp and save to do to get him some kind of insurance, and always, always be turned away due to the diagnostic list, the downpayment taken right from their hands by companies that felt even glancing at his list was sufficient to suck up any red cent his parents cobbled together for his sake. “If you don’t want me to start gearin’ up for World War Three levels of explosiveness at any provocation, especially interference in gettin’ you somewhere where you’re able to sit down and not risk yourself...well...well then don’t do that. But if you do that to yourself, followin’ a long day, and then that crapfest of a hovel, and after she’d been well informed as to what kind of -”

“Hush now, be quiet,” trying to placate but there was laughter in the words, “shut up, you’re being manly and brutish again. I’ll have to kiss you if you insist on carrying on.”

Heather, forgotten momentarily until she let loose a little squeak, “Ooh, you two are so _cute_. It’s disgusting! So-so gross, oh goodness gracious, it’s so sweet, I wanna gobble you both up with a spoon!”

Startled, Vincent looked her way, “Umn...”

“I present to you, Exhibit B, Vincent,” much put upon and taking on the tone of a harried instructor, an elegant hand waving to encompass her. “Here, we see one of the many forms of female in her natural habitat. Dressed to appear harmless and in need of picking up or protecting, this particular type is a master at making herself difficult to be rid of, often indispensable in the home or in public, and even more often, able to turn on at a whim, a virulent display of varying increasing force to suit the situation that discourages any threatening, mean, or even mildly disagreeable action directed at them. They thrive on sugar, spite, cozy jumpers, hot cocoa, and romance novels, comics, television shows, and movies, especially those with unresolved sexual tension between potential love interests that aren’t officially in the script. A particular frenzy can be observed if they see anything that can remotely be construed as romantic out in the wild, resulting in high pitch noises, a bizarre sublanguage only understood by their own kind being emitted in a range of frequencies, while they do vigorous, tight body gyration dances to call more of their kind to observe whatever bounty they have found. This cycle continues until they reach a particular age of maturity, whereupon they search out a mate or three, to produce offspring with similar traits, thus ensuring the continuing propagation of their particular subtype.” Adding, “They’re very successful, and one of the kinds I didn’t mind in small doses if having to bed them, they tend towards bouncy and fun, the drawback is that it’s a fifty-fifty whether they decide to latch on or not, and once they latch, they’re hell to get rid of.”

“I don’t like hot cocoa,” Heather protested. “Tea, good n’proper. And romance movies suck the dog’s bollocks. Gimme explosions, swords, bad one-liners, and flimsy plot lines that make no bones about how weakly it’s all held together with shoestring and bubblegum. Not the same characters and storylines that’ve been clutterin’ up grocery checkout lines for like, what, a thousand years.”

“It was the 1970s when those novels began to fill checkout counter lines across the globe, but could be seen as early as the 1950s in some places, lovely, not a thousand years,” groaning theatrically. 

“Close enough,” she grunted and blew a raspberry. “So,” turning towards Vincent, expression and bearing suddenly megawatt bright, and now he thought he was starting to understand the sarcastic description Eugene had recited, because she looked like she was about to start bouncing any moment if she wasn’t given direction or wasn’t grabbed and squished into a hug to keep her still, “you alright now? Because nobody’s noticed us yet, but people do walk around here a lot when revealing pregnancies, or proposing marriage, or other things like that.”

“Ye-yeah, thanks,” nodding, getting back up, squeezing Eugene’s hands tightly. “Just was a big shock, didn’t mean to get all weird and wiggy like that.”

Heather’s arm was back where it had been, threaded through his, her whole body bumping up alongside his as they took each step, but it was Eugene who reassured him. “It was a shock, I didn’t think it would be that overwhelming, you didn’t, nobody does, it just happens sometimes. Like you’ve pointed out to me on plenty of occasions - we’re all human, and it doesn’t matter how a person was conceived, as we’re all still human, with all that comes attached with it.”

They were quiet on the way back, a big red bus was taken for part of the trip, and as Vincent felt the vehicle’s pressurized air motors raise it back up, after having watched it lower enough so that a ramp that flipped out with the push of a button from the driver, allowing Eugene to wheel himself up, and to a spot, a spot that was designated for those with strollers, rolling carts, or wheelchairs, he had to wonder. Little concessions allowing for the disabled, all taken for granted, that made something simple like taking public transport viable for someone with a wheelchair. Crosswalks that made clicking and pocking noises when it was safe to cross, so that the unsighted had an easier time. Britain’s people stared at Eugene with morbid curiosity, openly, yet with the sort of pretending to not see him at all, while staring simultaneously, just like they did back home. The people’s behaviours were little different, equally unwelcoming, and grotesque, but the society still made the minor adjustments that allowed for a more level playing field for those who weren't as able bodied. 

That, alone, was such a stark thing. Then, the ability, the right to, get medical assistance... Eugene had said it was because of the upper class wanting to keep a functional, sustainable, peasant class, and he saw it, he understood that, and despised that that was a big reason for why those services, those chances existed. Didn’t change the fact that it enabled those benefits, though. Still, there was another reason for the upper class, or the, more importantly, those forming a subclass of medical and scientific professionals, to have that group of people to treat, to study... It was so that they had laboratory mice to learn from, observe, improve, practice on, before taking those lessons and applying them to the elites as well as themselves. A chance to knock the bugs out before risking their more valuable to humanity's long term survival selves and future generational selves that carried their ever improving DNA. Eugene saw how things served himself, his kind, his background, he didn't see tomorrow, tomorrow's tomorrow, and squint to try and pierce the veil of time shrouding the present from a thousand years of tomorrows. The STEMs could, and so they served the weak, the ill, the inferior (in)Valid class, then the upper class with their money and clout to fund the necessary wonders of scientific progress, and created custom made heirs for those individuals... And then, serving themselves, other scientists, thinkers of the future, of space, of man far beyond Earth. It was a precarious triad that here, in the UK, was held steady, and would remain so for generations to come if nothing catastrophic happened to upset that balance. 

Back home, nothing was like that. Vincent could marvel at the differences, wish for improvements, but that wasn’t his drive, his dream. His dream was personal. Individual. Selfish. And honestly...? He didn’t think he cared enough to push that envelope, he’d push his own, and call it a day. Maybe if he did get into Gattaca, maybe if he finally got to the stars, and saw just how tiny Earth was, and truly understand how tiny man was more than just intellectually, how interdependent, he might return to take that much larger envelope up and shove it down every Valid and (in)Valid gullet he came across until they all choked or swallowed what he was serving them. If Dr. Oda was able to repair anything really wrong, offer him a better, more accurate to life, diagnostic prognosis, and thus, a new lease on life of a sort...lots of ifs. 

Right now, all he could do was breathe, and try not to fall over at what new world had suddenly been handed over, no strings, no questions, for him to explore.

XXX

Labs, being stuck by needles, poked, prodded, measured, weighed. Told to fast for one set, and then having a checkup from Dr. Oda, a preliminary baseline he supposed, gathering data...and then a few days later, another set of labs, after being told to eat, sleep, and drink like he would normally before having those labs taken...and then another checkup exactly like the first. There was reflex testing, there was listening to his chest with an icy cold stethoscope, there was the old, tried and true methods rolled out first. Before Vincent found his impatience breaking from his grasp, there came the biomachines. Not the basic, available to select markets like the dedicated athlete type one that was Eugene’s battered, old model (even with the leaps in technology and the decreasing cost to produce, some machine types were almost impossible for laymen to buy. And amongst the hardest to obtain types, were biomachines, diagnostic, or medical treatment ones, so even Eugene’s fifteen year old model was a rare piece, and expensive, no matter how limited its function.) No, he found himself in a web of sticky diodes with antennae, but no real cords, just the cords of signals and data sent to the main console of the machine, invisible, yet fully tangible and real. Dr. Oda never said anything to reveal what the data she was compiling told her, making no guesses, no diagnosis. When Vincent finally broke down, asking what she saw, she smiled, it wasn’t the practiced smile like he remembered the geneticist giving his parents, that scripted, reassuring, all knowing one meant to convince parents to follow progress and make Valid babies... It was another of those real smiles, and she answered him bluntly, if not in the way he wanted. She wanted data. She wanted to collect all the information she could within a reasonable amount of time - unless seeing something immediately endangering - to formulate her own diagnosis to share with him, and cover what sorts of treatments were available, pros and cons, and what suited his needs - if he needed any. Once again, came that supposition, trying to balance against a lifetime telling him that treatment would be denied, but that he wouldn’t ever survive without it. Granted, Vincent knew that he did need treatment of some sort, could feel it in his chest, his breathing, but he could appreciate her desire to not colour the readings. 

Asking Eugene back at their flat, if that’s how it always was, if that was the sort of medical culture in his homeland, the Englishman scoffed. “If she’d been my physician, chances are, I would be walking with only a cane on bad days. She’d have tied me down and kept me sedated for my recovery, only lowering the dose during prescribed physio, until she deemed the grafts taken, healed, and my body in a state where I could begin to retrain it...and I wouldn’t be surprised if she kept me heavily monitored for that until she was fully satisfied.” Making a face, sipping tea from a hideously painted, delicate pink and green on white teacup, saucer held just under the bottom with his other hand, “I can’t tell if we’ve lucked out and gotten the best provider hellbent on a scientific approach, or if she’s some sort of punishment, showing me the error of my willful ways, while driving you half up the wall in a combination of impatience, arousal, and general ants in your pants...while I’m forced to counsel you to take it slow no matter how you hate it.” Snorting, disgusted, cup clicking, “God, they say that as you get older, the things adults and authority figures used to aggravate you by spouting off in refrain, suddenly make sense, and start spewing out of your own mouth when you least expect it.” Hand went to his head, tugging the top of his hair back to reveal his hairline tightly, “Please tell me my hairline’s not receding already. I’m too young to turn into my ruddy father, I’m only twenty-six! And they told me the geneticist edited that bit out, they promised!”

Snickering, “What’re you gonna do when you hit forty? You gonna hunt down the geneticist and demand a refund? When’s the warranty run out?”

“Ongoing, if I hadn’t bloody voided it,” cheeks puffing. 

Vincent reached out, pouring a refill on Eugene’s tea, “Yeah, that’s what happens when you get some aftermarket alterations. Unless you got a company approved repairman, anything you do, even tightenin’ down a bolt, can void those things if you read the fine print. For all you know, beatin’ your meat could’ve voided it, not just taking a crack at auto-jumping.”

“Would you still love me if I sprouted back hair and went bald?” forlornly, mocking and absurd. “I remember Grandfather could take his shirt off in the summers, and you couldn’t tell for all the white on him. At least if it was poofy, you’d know, and not be surprised! Not even the wool on a sheep is that puffed and scraggly the way most old men get! But no, no, it was all flat, and he walked around looking like he was wearing shirtsleeves, with a three inch band of flesh around elbow where no hair was, then suddenly, gah, elbow right down to middle knuckle. All of it meant to confuse a lad with an ice lolly in hand, no doubt, thinking it was perfectly safe to accept the offer of hopping into the proffered lap to receive the required doting grandparents must allot to their only grandson now and again for the sake of appearances. That half my blue lolly broke off and landed on him, and I scooped it up quickly, hoping to both rescue my lolly and to not be caught being so clumsy, it was only after I got the damned thing in my mouth that I noticed it came with extra friends of the shed keratin variety. Beastly, I had really hoped in my teens that they had eased back on that trait in me...” Holding a hand out, looking at the back of it, “Sadly, as I get older, I’m beginning to realize that I’m likely to resemble one of those silken tressed aliens from a modest budget sci-fi film."

“Man, sometimes you’re so vain,” ribbing him, squirming down in his seat on the sofa opposite the yellow wing backed velour covered chair that Eugene occupied. “Justifiably, definitely, oh yeah. But vain.” Scooting a bare foot out to rub over Eugene’s red sock covered one, “I don’t know if I’m supposed to laugh, wince, nod sympathetically sometimes, or reassure you when you get off on those tangents.”

The pretense of vanity fell away, “Laugh, you’re supposed to laugh. I’m being self-deprecating, dry, droll, sardonic, and poking fun at my engineered status, family eccentricities, and looking for anything to find amusing about it from my own vantage point, and that you would find funny instead of...” Shrugging, “Whatever it is you usually feel in regards to my family.”

“Sad, angry,” answering truthfully. “Enraged. Ashamed - not for anythin’ I did or you did, but ashamed that they can be considered human. That we live in a world that puts people like that at the top, gives them power over anythin’. I wouldn’t give’um power over a row of toilets in a train station, let alone real, temporal power. Disgusted, and...and so, so angry, Eugene. The kind of angry where you cry, because it’s so bad, and even if you wanna wring their necks, take them down a peg, wanna get rid of them, or-or somethin’, it’s too big, and crushes you down, so you cry and people think you’re hurt or sad, but really, you’re only wishing you could focus on one responsible neck and snap it, removin’ that poison from the world before it could do any more harm...” Watching him, “I know it sounds like I’m angry or prone to it maybe, and yeah, being here, there’s lots of things that push my buttons like they’ve never been pushed in my whole life, and I feel very, very irrational and like I may do something stupid, out of character, and lash out at the worst offender of the button pushin’....but honest, honest to goodness, Eugene, all my life, I’ve never been the angry type. Frustrated, wit’s end, fed up, driven...but not angry. Not angry enough where I wanna do something, even for a brief second. I’ve been in fights, I’ve defended myself, and I’ve done it for money when I had to. But there was never any anger fueling it, never wanted to strike someone in rage, or anything...but if I ever saw any of them that -” Swallowing thickly, “If I had to sit here like this, be extra polite, act like I didn’t know those awful things, act like I had grown up extra well-mannered, and breathe the same air... Eugene, we may actually have a problem if that hadta happen.”

“You...you actually...hate them?” confused, head craned almost completely to one side. “I mean, legitimately hate them. They disgust me, certainly, they irritate me, their opinion of me still has the power to hurt me, even when I don’t want it to...but all I feel is...” Shaking his head, bewildered, “Apathetic. They don’t _mean_ anything, they’re not _worth_ anything. They’re some random collection of people Jerome Morrow grew up believing he belonged to, and had to interact with on certain levels, and that he had to meet certain requirements to maintain some level of their acceptance, because acceptance only came from those ranks, other people in the world didn’t have that, that’s what Jerome was taught, that’s what we're all taught one way or another... I never loved them, Jerome never loved them. There is no love in that place, and if there ever was, then I wasn't ever exposed to it, Vincent. It's not their disowning, it's not their actions, that really hurt me, or ever did - it's the disappointment they wield like weapons. A souffle breaking in the oven - that's disappointing. A perfectly engineered child not passing some measure of success that they expect of that child, rather than what the child picks for a goal...that shouldn't be disappointing. Frustrating perhaps that they choose differently, but disappointing? Like a cat interrupting a luncheon with a loud hacked hairball off in the corner? That’s where they can hurt me, because I accepted those goals they chose for me, as though they were my own, in trade for the only place I had been designed to fill exactly, and that’s a kind of acceptance, and it’s the only kind I knew existed. Their disappointment wrecks me, because I failed myself, more than I ever failed them contrary to whatever they boohoo into monogramed pocket squares for pity points." Firmer, “I don’t hate them, Vincent, to hate someone, you have to feel strongly towards them, some kind of passion, some kind of thing that’s powerful and moving. Rather, what they do is about as interesting and worthwhile as watching a dog crap - something observed accidentally or out of circumstantial pure boredom.”

Disagreeing, “I can hate them, because I feel strongly for you. I can hate them with all the force and power I feel for you. In defense of what you truly value, and it can be overpowering and strong and unreasonin’ and blind.” Looking away, out the closed double doors that led to the patio, the gauzy curtains held back from the glass partially, “Perfectly normal to hate anythin’ that poses any threat, danger, little harm or bigger one, to what’s important to you. There’s no excusing it, and there’s no real need to explain it beyond getting the idea across. It’s visceral. And yes, I know, I’m soundin’ like some mouth breather musclebound behemoth when I’m really just a skinny geek who was a buck-thirty soakin’ wet on a good day for a long time. It’s not like that, though, I won’t waste effort going outta my way to get at them, but if they ever got near enough to get my hands on and I thought I had a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting away with it...there might be a problem.”

“Snowballs melt in Hell,” Eugene pointed out quietly. “And whatever other odds there are that you’ve so far overcome, that’s not a gamble I’m going to allow you to risk. I forbid it, Vincent, if it ever came -”

“Yeah, I know how to avoid being in a room alone with them,” interrupting. “Just...just don’t let me get in that situation, and I won’t have to disappoint you with a bad gamble.”

Raking a hand through his hair, “I only wanted to hear your laughter, I thought they could at least be some use to me in getting that...”

“Your perverted grandpa walkin’ around hairy and topless, and makin’ you sit in his lap, and you gettin’ a mouthfull of his chesthair’s supposed to make me laugh?” this time it was his turn to be confused.

“Wha-at? No.” Sputtering, “No! Not at all, damn, is that what you picked up from that story?”

“It’s what you said,” making a face at him.

“No, no, I was - Jesus - oh now I understand why you’re always saying ‘Jesus Christ’,” laughing incredulously. “I was mostly complaining that I think that I got stuck with the gene I really didn’t want, because I’ve seen how bad it can get! And then I won’t be pretty to look at anymore! As though that’s the only thing I’m good for! It was my making sport of it, and trying to tease myself into acceptance of the writing on the wall!”

Vincent grunted half getting up, and scooting the half steps to cram Eugene over in the wingbacked chair. “You could have it sproutin’ out your ears, eyebrows spreadin’ all over your forehead, big curry comb brushes of it, bristle side out, strapped to the sides of your neck and the tops of your shoulders, it could be dense as a silverback gorilla’s, and you would still be beautiful, jackass. And besides,” stroking Eugene’s forearm, “it’s soft. You’re soft. All over, soft over hard, over flexible, and that’s not going to change with more or less hair. If you get upset enough over it, I’ll help you do whatever it is that will make you happy about it. If you lose your hair, you can wear a toupee or a hat if you’re that upset by it. We can hunt down the geneticist if you really want, and throw rotten vegetables at them and demand a refund. If I’m not senile by the time you’re bald as a cue ball with every other hair follicle migratin’ south, I’ll toddle along beside you in my walker, and you can mow people down with the motorized chair you finally upgrade to some point in your ornery seventies.”

Eugene was shaking, suppressed laughter leaking out, muffling it in his shoulder, “You’re mad! Dammit, you’re the one who’s supposed to be laughing, not me! I’m supposed to be the witty, charming, vain, and daft Englishman, bandying about stories for others’ amusement! You’re supposed to be the Yank who you can never tell if they’re telling tall tales or telling the truth, and usually the more outlandish, the more likely to be true!”

Snorting, “I’m from Detroit. We don’t do that. You’re thinking Texas, or somethin’. Detroit, we talk about cars, whose dad’s the baddest on the block, and who learned how to pick a lock first... Or kissed the girl next door with the big boobs and bad acne. How many punches you took before the bigger kid hustled you for your lunch money. Things like that, little stuff that gets bullshitted. Sneaking one of your dad’s beers out to the playground or one of the big concrete drain-off ditches that you rollerskate, skateboard, or bike all over when the weather’s nice enough to do that.”

“Hnn, how much of that did you actually do?” watching him curiously, the laughter tapering off gradually. 

“It’s what Anton did,” shrugging it away. “I watched, I listened, most the time they didn’t even realize I was there, usually tucked in a shadow, reading a book. When Tommy Hillfinkle broke his leg and the other kids all bailed, not wanting to say they’d been playing where they shouldn’t, I stopped by his parents’ house to tell them where he was. The doctors couldn’t save the foot, but they managed to save the leg, if the other kids had helped get him to safety, get his foot out of that grate...” Dismissing it, “I would’ve done it myself, but I was a shrimp, like I said, and when I asked him if he wanted a hand, he tried to lunge up, threw a few rocks my way. Kids do stupid things, Eugene, they get hurt sometimes. Even though I knew physically I couldn’t keep up with those games, I was perfectly happy with my books, the outdated physics textbooks, astronomy, everything, anything, I could get my hands on. Mom volunteered at the community friends for local libraries, that took in donated books to sell to raise proceeds for the library. Maybe a repair to a wing, pay for another librarian, full time if the proceeds were good, more books, some computers... But the local schools donated textbooks, which, weren’t the kind of thing that’s popular at book sales, so the other volunteers would help gather all those up, and Mom would sit me down to figure out which ones I didn’t have already, or weren’t outdated versions of something else I’d covered... Whatever genes got picked for them, even the ones that were supposed to be smart, never were good at learning, and that’s where my playground was, since they wouldn’t let me join theirs.”

“Conservative estimate, what’s your IQ?” seriously, examining him, as though seeing him from fresh eyes.

“Those tests are nonsense,” nose wrinkling, scooting and shifting to be more comfortable in the narrow confines of the shared arm chair. “They test you on your ability to retain a wide range of random kinds of information, not on your ability to process it, then apply it on stuff. Invented to test for some kinda standard operatin’ intelligence for the first airplane pilots back during umn...World War One? Or was it Two? Back when the Air Force in the US was still a part of the Navy...I think.” Scratching behind an ear, “History, not so much my strong suit. Really should know that period though, without airflight, there’s no rocket flight. No rockets, no astronauts, cosmonauts.... Should know it because it was in boats that man first traveled through what they thought was impossible, and looked up to the sky to tell them how to get home, in a place where there’s no other landmarks that stay the same, for farther than the naked eye of the first sailor could ever see.”

“So, genius then,” as though that were the expected answer. “A legitimate, old fashioned genius. Like Katherine Johnson, the woman physicist that worked in your country’s aronautics and space programs. They said she was a computer before there were ever computers, that as long as she lived, and there were missions sent, even satellite probes, they consulted her, counting upon her ability and skill, no matter if a computer came to a different conclusion. The computer was generally wrong, and she was right. Einstein, Tyson, Sagan, Hawking, all geniuses, lauded for the things that made them uniquely intelligent and human.” Eugene’s shoulders hitched when he caught Vincent staring at him, “An IQ is just a measurement to gauge the ability to retain information. It doesn’t make a man a genius, it just makes him good at storing that information, like a sheet of paper or notebook. Fairly useful in trivia games, though, and not really applying myself when studying, could just spit back out the necessary answers without any thinking. You’re right, no brain power exerted, no thought, no processing, just a chunk of information that doesn’t really do anything on its own, but isn’t combined with other chunks to make new information.” Sitting forward, snagging the abandoned teacup, “Fine pair, aren’t we?”

XXX

Awakening to murmurs, Vincent knuckled sleep from his eyes. “Mph?” 

“I’m going to miss this,” Eugene was facing him in the bed, fingers twining through the mousey brown sable of Vincent’s hair, and it always felt perfect when the Englishman did that. 

“Miss wha?” snuffling, shifting to tangle closer. “Bed back home’s comfier, this one’s ‘k, no reason t’miss it.”

“Miss you,” the words remaining in that warm softness, like pillow talk, but there was something that didn’t seem right.

“Huh?” confused, waking up more. “What - I don’t...don’t get it.” Bewildered, alert, and suddenly fearful, “What’s wrong? Did I do somethin’ to -”

“Shh-shh, no,” fingers covering his mouth. “When we get back, things will have to change,” like that was soothing, reassuring. “You need your stars, Vincent. It’s carried you this far, and it’s still got a few million miles more to carry you. I can help, will help -”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, “‘Course, said so, what am I missin’? How’s that change things?”

“You’ll have to become Jerome,” said simply. “Everywhere, all the time. You can’t answer to Vincent, you can’t _be_ Vincent anymore. You’ll remake Jerome to fit you, but you’ll also remake yourself to fit him. And Vincent, this,” shapes traced his cheekbones, “this will grow into a different person across from me. The core person, the drive, that’ll remain, you’ll make a better Jerome than I ever could, but he’s not Vincent. So, I suppose I’ll miss this, miss you. It’ll still be you, but-but not you, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about that.”

Head thumping back down on the pillow, Vincent shifted where his arms had been, only loosely cupping Eugene, holding him in an easy to slip out of grasp. Tighter, drawing him in, and scooting to close the bit of gap, he hung on. He didn’t like the idea either, not looking at it from that direction. It sounded all wrong, all warped. 

“It’s just polish,” he offered. “Didn’t you say that was the only difference ‘tween you and me in most ways? A bit of oil buffed onto some metal to make it shinier.”

“Did I say that?” Eugene sounded surprised. “That was smart of me. Must have been absolutely pissed, wasn’t I? Wisdom found at the bottom of a bottle, that’s quintessentially me.” 

“Not really, it was when I was tugging at that accidentally over starched collar that one time before we went out to that French place you made reservations at, and you kept pullin’ my hands away from it, and I said I wasn’t certain any amount of dressing up could change what I am, rough, things like that,” brushing his hands over the swimmer’s side, his hip, his back, his shoulder, in a lazy sweep that employed both hands, and yet allowed him to keep his arms tucked around him tightly. “So, I’ll finally get a bit of oil smeared on me, and some elbow grease to work it in and make it stick instead of it melting and sloughing off because no time was taken to work it all in. Vincent, but shinier, still me, just...with some grease worked in until it fills up all the nooks and crannies, and most won’t ever realize it’s nothing fancier, more special than some grease and effort.”

Eugene leaned in close, as though imparting a secret, “I’m very protective of Vincent, very fond of him, he’s shared his dream with me, when I had none of my own, or light to guide me, he shared his. So I’m very, very protective of him, of my Vincent, never forget that.”

There could have been other things to be said, but Vincent was afraid too now that the particular part of their future reality had been pointed out. The elephant in the room was noticed, acknowledged, and could no longer be hidden from. Rolling Eugene over, kissing lids, brows, the raised bit of forehead, down the side, temples, cheeks, everything, each patch he pressed his mouth to, mapping Eugene’s features, then hesitating at familiar lips, not wanting to become lost. He wanted to etch every second into his mind, because Eugene was right, he was going to have to become Jerome, and it was time he actually began taking more steps towards that goal, to begin to measure his thoughts, his actions, not just manage to hold his tongue or put a complex knot in his tie...tomorrow. Tonight, it was just himself that he had to be. So he said nothing, didn’t let Eugene interrupt or side-track him with words, instead kissed him until for once the Englishman was the one left breathless under the intensity. 

A birthmark, a mole, tiny things, barely noticeable, and definitely not in the dark, except Vincent knew exactly where those marks were, he’d memorized them before. Again, reaffirming those tiny imperfections, making a celestial chart of a different variety, sometimes no visible mark existed to guide, or lock the location with greater ease. Vincent still memorized those spots. Soft hiss from a bite to that area of flesh that ringed Eugene’s middle, the one that could generate ardent orders and a string of foul swears, demanding more and less, scooting down before Eugene could do more than catch a breath. No order, no distraction. Downy soft, mostly flat, though easy and happy to curl with a twist of a finger to pull hair into that shape from chest down tight abdomen, to thatch of hair at groin - hair that was funnily enough not quite as rampant as the rest of Eugene would imply. Not because the other man did anything with it, it just was a peculiarity of growth pattern that what was between his legs and inner thighs, wasn’t as copious the way other parts that could be compared to might lead someone to believe. Thighs kissed, scooting down farther, down to knees, hands traveling, and squeezing calves, and back up again, and Eugene gave up trying to prod him one way or another with hands and whispers that always ended sharply because Vincent would lick somewhere he knew was distractingly sensitive. 

Guiding him to his belly, Vincent kissed along spine, along the large wings of sharp shoulder blades, pausing, ear pressed just to the left of spinal column, listening to the reassuring, achingly familiar sound of Eugene’s steady heartbeat. Strong as an ox, could run through a wall - if he could still run, that’s what German had said, describing Eugene once while preparing Vincent for that first visit. It had almost been stopped permanently, and if it had been, he wouldn’t be able to listen to it right now. Not a good thought, and one he sent away with a firm press of lips over the measuring force that ensured Eugene’s blood continued to flow through his body, where it belonged. Further down, finding that girdle of sensitive skin, a spot Eugene rarely let him do more than touch with hands, maybe a brief press of cheek if sitting behind him when the other man was in the mood to stand up and walk around. The surgeons had really done a beautiful job covering the scars with either graft tissue, or fixing everything as tidy as it could possibly be during the very first operation to save Eugene’s life after the car had hit him. There were still scars, though. The hiss that came wasn’t exactly a warning, sensitive, a recoil, but not saying no, not trying to get away. Licking, tracing the web of damage that would mark where the beginning and end of true nerve input reaching the brain uninterrupted if it hadn’t been for the grafts of spinal tissue - stressed, strained, and scarred to minimal usefulness as they had been, or not, there was still sensory input sent and received. But even with those grafts and the ability to feel a full range head to toe, Eugene still had that spot, that spot that would otherwise be the equator separating top from bottom, and with every slow swipe of tongue dragging over the scars, and the unseen, unmarked line, had Eugene tensing and relaxing, a sharp gasp released once, before a sob worked free to be muffled and pressed into pillow. 

Vincent did his best to listen, to memorize, to learn, to _pay attention_ to every reaction and its nuance, but there were so many layers, and they were so tightly woven together, and Eugene was shaking, holding himself together, that it was hard to catch it all. One then another hitched breath, trying to be a cry of some sort, grew into trembling moans, that Vincent worked free one after the other until a wrung out ‘oh god’ was in the air. More, traveling further afield, moving away from the heavy overload of scars and what had been hurt being made to feel good, down further, or up further, making a slow path. Tongue working steadily, lips pressing between circular winding licks at Eugene’s asshole, and every twist became hungry, the arch of back and hips trying to give better access, the opposite of almost fearful and uncertain the way he’d received attention to the physical evidence of breaking under the pressure of supposed perfection. Muffled chant of ‘fuck-fuck-fuck-oh fuck’, and Vincent actually laughed, having to pause, resuming his ministrations at the startled indignant squawk when he’d stopped for that split second, and may have returned to that task by completely sliding his tongue in a flight of fancy, pairing it up with a raspberry. That had Vincent falling to the side, having to give up yet again, due to laughter, because Eugene went ramrod stiff, head, neck, shoulders, all shoving up from the bed, startled at full tongue and a raspberry to boot somewhere sensitive and unexpected.

Eugene scrambled to get back onto his back after that, and Vincent hadn’t stopped laughing, silencing questions and complaints with a kiss that he didn’t find himself particularly lost in, because he was still too busy snickering...but there was a barely coherent ‘huh?’ from the always, seen or unseen, breathtaking man when he ended it. Lube was blessedly easy to find, a tube or tub always kept on each nightstand, because, well, good for massage, nice for a tug and rub, not just for intercourse. Working it in, long, thorough passes along Eugene’s cock, Vincent found himself the focus of urgent hands mapping his chest and face, half-spoken pleas with each tight and twisting stroke of his hand over rigid flesh paired with his other painting invisible words on the front portion of Eugene’s sensitive belt of nerves, while kneeling, straddling thighs that twitched and bucked up into him. Fighting to form the words, make the question into something to be heard, he asked, voice hoarse, strained, surprising himself with how pent up he sounded, having forgotten anything beyond his task to be with Eugene completely, wholly as himself without any other artifice or goals to intrude and change him, and possibly what was between he and Eugene. His friend, his confidant, lover - his lover, that’s what they were, weren’t they? Not just friends, far, far more than friends - gave no answer Vincent could understand, it was just a moan and another urgent attempt to lean up and kiss him. 

Shifting, only to get the best leverage, rolling and twisting until they were on side of the bed’s edge, feet planting, knees braced against mattress, and Eugene was under him, stretched out, back arching, arms overhead and tearing at bedding as he fingered and teased with one hand, the other continuing its duty seeing to heavy cock and sensitive waist line, switching off every time Eugene managed a particularly mindless twist into the touch. When tightness began to swallow down his cock, Vincent bit his lip until there was blood for sure, not just a bit of split skin, but blood, he felt a few drops work down his chin. Deeper, deeper, and balancing, braced, hands making sure to tug and squeeze and stroke the length of cock that may not have the easiest time finishing, but always did anyway, and leaning in, arching so he could kiss stomach, or stroke it, sides, grasp hips, pull and guide them closer, tighter to him. Forceful clamping down around him, locking tight, the other man arched in a clear, perfect drawn bow, until sitting up, arms wrapping around his shoulders, and face planted in the center of his chest - a wrenching sob breaking free once there, refusing to let him budge, and Vincent shuddered, his own orgasm threatening to drag him down into free fall.

“Vin-vincent, pl-please -” legs shook, fighting to go tight around his waist, fingers dug into his arms, and Eugene was forcing him to come closer, to allow only enough space so that they could work in struggling tandem, “pl-oh god don’t stop, please.”

Keeping the unwavering deep, languid pace, somehow, forgetting he’d even set one, Vincent did his best to promise, “I won’t - M’m here.” It was either a few more minutes, moments, or a lot more time than either of those measurements, Vincent had lost track, only delivering slow deep stroke after another, and he didn’t know when, or how, but his glasses had appeared, or maybe some miracle had happened and he could see again, because under him and straining, was Eugene, every detail clear. The flushing almost sunburn brightness of the way effort flooded surface skin with heat and open blood vessels. Sweat beading and pooling at the hollow of throat, before disappearing down his chest. The way Vincent’s slow to build and arrive load erupted in long strands that painted their undeniable evidence wherever they landed. Green eyes rolling back in skull, hair sweat spiked and hand yanked into a misshapen mass. Green irises devoured by pupil refocusing on him, sliding down, dazed or drunken, to watch each lunge or the way his own spent cock continued to tap, another moan coming right before a few halfhearted - comparatively - last strands oozing free to go with a shudder... Hands cupping his cheeks, that was all the control Eugene had left, and it was spent caressing him, while the rest was all given up, lost to everything, anything else. It was an epiphany as he built up and crashed, when Vincent fell forward into that embrace, hanging on, moaning he put name to the idea that he’d only ever jokingly sort of danced around admitting, “Love you.”


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn’t his heart, turned out. Or, not exactly. A small patch was all that was needed for the heart itself, some kind of biomesh that made his heart no longer hiccup by having too much blood or too little in one valve at a time. Turns out the chest pain that could come over him in wracking, twisting, gasps, struggling to contain it all if he truly pushed himself - was a combination of a partially deformed bronchial tube, and his vena cava, one of the major blood vessels to the heart, was crimped, underdeveloped, but functional. The pain was a storm of those factors, and Dr. Oda had been somewhat displeased. Growing a fairly standard organ was one thing, the growing of the healthy vena cava was also easy - it was grafting it, that would be far more tricky. The bad branch of his bronchi was already being lab grown, from cells of the healthy side’s branch, and with those things underway, he found Dr. Oda switching her focus to the other, smaller medical issues. Collapsed arches weren’t anything Vincent had worried over himself, but she was adamant, and so into the first surgery he went, trying not to show his fear. 

 

Didn’t like the hospital setting, not that it was bad, it was just... Private room or not, it was still a pretty public place. While he was waiting for the foot surgery to heal enough for him to be allowed back ‘home’, Heather was by his side for hours, playing her part. He couldn’t say whether he was comfortable with her there or not, but he did have to agree that Heather’s presence providing support and cover, meant that a lot of the more snide, nasty shit, that Eugene had warned him would form thick undercurrents and eddies in many interactions out and about, hadn’t. Each time she came in, kissing his cheek, his forehead, cooing over him, and Vincent was left rubbing the side of his nose, his neck, looking away, the too friendly touch with someone he didn’t really know all that well...was embarrassing. Whenever Eugene was there to witness it, the other man would barely snicker before taking a sip of one of those ridiculously ever present teas that the Brits drank like water. Far as Vincent was concerned, they could keep it to themselves, didn’t matter how ‘thick’ or ‘strong’ the stuff was, nothing was going to replace the jet fuel espresso he’d gotten a taste for that Eugene had introduced him to...and now had to always keep stocked. At least Vincent’s drinking habit wasn’t like Eugene’s. Strong ass coffee was way cheaper than two cases of wine a week and a half case of hard liquor. But the hospital, public, too much Heather, and pitiful plastifoam cups of weak tea that just didn’t do it for him...

 

“You’ve got the wiggles,” Heather snorted, leaning closer, fluffing his pillow unnecessarily. “Are there ants in your pants, or is it a natural malfunction, or something?”

 

“This is him being patient,” Eugene shifted his wheelchair about, reaching out to flick on the electric kettle Heather had thoughtfully brought yesterday - but bland hot water didn’t sound so appetizing, even though he knew the other man was probably going to insist in him downing a cup or three ‘to keep his fluids up’. That’s what the pitcher of water and the saline drip was for. “He’s being a rather good sport about it, his patience works well when covering one or two matters, but the last weeks, that’s been a complex and compounding issue.”

 

Grousing, “Hey, I’m right here. I can’t help it, I’m bored, there’s nothing to do -”

 

“You’re not allowed to _do_ anything,” correcting him, Heather rummaged in her enormous black handbag, sounds of noisy shifting clutter coming from within. “This is London, there’s plenty to do, you’re just not clear to go live it up.” Nose wrinkling, holding up and examining a battered book, dusting it off, “There’s museums if you’re into that sort of thing, with the company you keep, that’d be an affirmative. Even kept off your feet for a few days you could do that, wheel the pair of you around in matching chairs...oh! Dressed up like twins, wouldn’t that be adorable...?”

 

“Nah,” flopping back on the bed. “I’ll take the museums, but no dice on the twins, this ain’t kindergarten with lookalike day.”

 

“Is he always the grouchy one too?” Heather asked Eugene. 

 

“Rarely,” chuckling. “I throw fits and follow useless flights of frantic fancy that if he didn’t collar me and draw me up short, I’d wind up rolling right over a cliff from a wrong turn. A regular cockup, that’s me! The man’s all that keeps me running, seems like some days. He’s insistent, do you know how difficult it is to roll away to your room angrily, for a hard night of drinking, when he just follows right behind, dinner on a tray, and snagging the bottle from a man’s hands, pouring a drink and then making off with the bloody thing, only to stick it up somewhere high?! Bastard’s too reasonable and responsible by far...let him have his dog day where he can be the broody one, the ADHD self-limits the sullen skulking in corners, making it all rather tolerable, even adorable to a degree.”

 

“Hey!” Snagging his pillow, waving it harmlessly in Eugene’s direction - jackass was too far away to hit unless he wanted to actually throw the damn thing, “I don’t skulk, you’re the skulker, finding a corner and a window to stare outta, full bottle in one hand, glass in the other. Why you even bother with the glass when you guzzle it straight...”

 

Swish of flask that had been snuck in, pulling it from inner coat pocket, “Does that mean you want your tea weak, then darling? Wouldn’t want your mood to darken further!”

 

“Asshole,” softly, incredulous, falling back onto the bed, “Asshole _s_ , surrounded by them, this country’s fulla batshit people...”

 

“That’s right babe, and right now, you’re one of them,” Heather laughed, weight settling over his legs. “This’ll cheer you up while someone makes you some special tea.” Vincent peered under his forearm to see the young woman lifting away a lid from a box she must have somehow - no matter how improbable that seemed until considering the size of her purse - dug out from her bag, to show battered checkerboard, “Might hafta fudge on a piece or two, I’ve had this since I was nine, at least it passes the time.”

 

XXX

 

Getting around in a wheelchair was an education. Not a pleasant one, either. Up until the chest surgeries, Vincent had at least been able to wheel it around himself, had even been trying to pop the wheels the way Eugene could with so much casual ease that it had looked no more difficult than snapping his fingers. But, after the chest surgeries, after more than a week cooped up in the hospital bed, then being instructed to use the wheelchair as much as possible over the coming weeks, he couldn’t use his arms to do anything. Not at first, not for a long time, too long. Heather was the one pushing him around like a kid in a stroller, with Eugene smoothly sailing along under his own practiced flicks over wheel handles... 

 

There were moments, back at the flat, settled onto the sofa, the wheelchair that was his own temporary prison, sitting empty beside him, waiting for him to need to move around the apartment - that Vincent suddenly felt so tired. Not sleepy tired, but tired-tired. He knew that it was only for a relatively short period, chanted it to himself each time he squirmed himself into the chair - since heaving or straining his upper body at all was against doctor’s orders - that it would be a short blip in his life. A nothing time. Just an aggravating, trying, time that would test him, that’s it, that’s all. One that would toughen him up, toughen his resolve, with a side bonus of more intimately understanding some of just how hellish it was to be robbed of the relatively easy mobility of most of his life. 

 

Crying, crying wasn’t something to do, but doped up on meds, tired, weary, on the couch, exhausted by the sheer weight of it all and boredom and the channels flipped through a thousand times in the last hour, and Vincent buried his face in his palms, weeping. 

 

Eugene was outside, smoking, reading a magazine, back to him, catching a slim bit of watery sun and air, the doors closed over, so the other man didn’t hear him. Vincent didn’t expect him to, anyway. Besides, what would he say? That he didn’t feel strong enough to face down a much easier sentence than what Eugene dealt with every day? 

 

Heather was there though, he had forgotten hearing her greeting and hail when she came in with groceries. She was only a few steps away, a few, deceptively easy steps for her, in the kitchen, putting whatever she’d picked up in the cupboards and fridge... Or, she had been, or probably been, Vincent couldn’t think clearly, trying to not strain the repair work and the dull, burning ache of surgery heavy in his chest, with any of his sobs. 

 

“Hey there, luv,” slim arm coming over his shoulders, “is it the pain? Your morphine wear off?”

 

Teeth gritting, smearing away evidence that wasn’t going anywhere, “Ah-ah, no, I’m good, I’m -”

 

“Bollocks,” her arm tightened, giving him a gentle shake, her little ballet flats squeaking on the floor as she shifted in her squat beside him. “Boys don’t up and cry when they’re good, luv, even sweethearts like you.” Heather twisted so he wasn’t left any choice but to look at her, “Nobody up and cries when they’re good. Would you like me to haul His Lordship in here by his pretty, golden locks, and hoist him right up there beside you, all snug as little bugs? Could do it, I’m stronger than I look,” softly teasing and offering, going so far as to flex one arm, showing off a dainty bicep encased in stretchy magenta cloth. 

 

“No,” denying the offer. “He should get some space too, sometimes. Needs a breather anyway, and no smokin’ in the apartment, ‘specially not with -” pressing a hand over the loose layer of pajama shirt that wasn’t anything he would normally don, and felt the thick bandages. “Pipes still fresh and healin’, limit the irritants, you heard Dr. Oda.”

 

“ _I_ heard a bossy lady who means well, but forgets that people don’t all get to go home to hospital conditions when released,” Heather snorted. “You take the stairs down to here, it’s just a few, but you take them, with crutches, even though they said to be easy on your feet for another week or so. You have a drink or two over the day, and they definitely told you that’s a no-no. You probably have a cheeky wank, heart palpitations don’t stop morning wood from presenting, and why waste a perfectly nice hardon just because your heart gets alittle uppity over it? It’s all over fast enough, right? Body’s gotta do what a body’s gotta do.” Adding, “And if you haven’t, well, that’s your problem. If Studly isn’t happy to lend a hand to a friend in need, then say no more, your rescuer has arrived, and it is me, Heather!.”

 

Trying to laugh, just a small one, Vincent shook his head, “Wha-at. No, that’s ah, not - that’s not a problem.”

 

Dr. Oda had said four weeks no sex, though, and Eugene had taken it as law, even though it had been Heather wringing her hands in the office, making sad, agreeing sounds when the brilliant doctor had made that decree. That wasn’t the problem, not even a little bit. 

 

“Well?” asking again, she plunked on the ottoman, scooting it up close to him, and she pinched both his cheeks and stretching them like a child trying to force someone else to smile. “What’s the problem then, if nobody’s offering a helping hand if yours is too tired, or at least a nice sucking off, head always makes things better, I say - then what’s got your knickers all bunched up?”

 

Wincing, Vincent scrubbed the image out of his head, he just wanted to be mobile, to not be hurting, being denied sex was barely even a thought...most of the time. “Just tired, I guess.”

 

“Excuses, excuses, that’s what men are generally good for,” pinning him with a knowing look. “They’ve got a few other pleasant points, and you more than most, even if you’re not quite so pretty as loverboy, he’s the kind I want to put in a frock, because he’s that disgustingly pretty, and then I’d have to claw his eyes out for looking better in that frock than I could. So...but _you_ ,” tweaking his nose, “and that’s all not the point, unless it is? You’re _tired_ sounds a lot like some women’s ‘I’ve got a headache’, something to get out of a little pouncing to improve mood, health, and sleep afterwards. Nature’s cure all, science still can’t beat that evolutionary advantage. The day they can bottle up _petit de mort_ in pill form, easy dissolve, full body, then I’ll say science has conquered all.”

 

Making a face, “Is sex all ya’ll talk about? Think about? It’s kinda...”

 

“If you say ‘tiring’, ‘tiresome’, or other ‘tired’ like word, I’ll pop you in that gob of yours,” she warned, tucking loose strands of her hair behind her ears. “Could talk about plenty of other things, but sex cheers people up, at least, I know it sure makes my partners happy, me, my takeaway is that they’re there for theirs, and don’t wanna put much effort into mine. Not always, but sometimes, guess it makes me happy fifty-fifty, not bad odds.”

 

“Damn, Heather, how old’er you that it’s like that? I’m twenty-eight, and I always thought I was bad, but maybe not that bad anymore,” shifting legs under the loose blanket that had been thrown over him hours ago. “And - dammit, we’re right back on it, and that’s not what’s buggin’ me, it’s not what’s runnin’ through my head like it does yours apparently!”

 

Eyes hooding, bracing her weight behind her on the ottoman, “You’re the one that won’t say what’s got you putting on the waterworks, and being ‘tired’ isn’t it, try another one.”

 

Helplessly, Vincent scanned the apartment’s main room. Nothing to save him, nothing to distract, even the television hadn’t done anything and now, it just needed to be clicked off. All that was right there with him, was a persistent escort, a wheelchair he couldn’t use on his own even, and a big, yawning ache in him. In his chest or his soul or his body, couldn’t say, didn’t know. Just knew that he felt drained, tired, weak, like he couldn’t do any of this, especially this, this bit with being trapped and immobile more than any other time in his life outside of infancy.

 

Scrubbing hands over his face once more, wishing he could scrub away the doubt, the weariness, murmuring into his cupped hands, “I can’t do this.”

 

“Do what?” head tilting, she was equally confused. “Talk?”

 

“No,” a shake of his head, hands dropping back down, one landing in his lap, the other on the armrest. “I don’t think I can take more of this...this being trapped like this.”

 

“Alright, I call a bit of muscle to be extra helpful today, and we get you outside, rolling around, seeing some sights, have you even seen Big Ben yet?” simple solution, a perfect solution, to a problem that wasn’t his. 

 

Quieter, leaning forward, checking out the window, seeing Eugene still outside, comfortable, unaware, because holy shit, what Vincent was about to say was hypocrisy of the highest order, and he didn’t want Eugene to know just how weak Vincent had suddenly become. Voice low, “In my body like this, I can-can’t do this, can’t even get up to go to the can without it becomin’ a big production. I’m trapped like this, I know, I know it’s only temporary, but I can’t do this.” Worst of all, “I don’t know how he faces it, when I barely can, I ain’t as strong as I thought I was, he makes it look so easy, thought it’d be doable, that I could keep up...”

 

Heather drew a long, slow, deep breath and then very quietly released it, “Alright, that’s a big arse load of shite there.” Raising a hand, studying her trimmed silver nails, as though they would give her some insight or answer, “You’re sick, Vincent. You’ve had more surgery in a couple weeks, than most (in)Valids have in a lifetime, even here on our muddy island. Big stuff, major stuff, and that - that can make people get...”

 

“The applicable word, is ‘despondent’,” Eugene could maneuver so quickly, so quietly sometimes, and the doors hadn’t even creaked, not a crack, not a crinkle, as they had been pressed open enough for the Valid to reenter their temporary home. “There’s more where that came from, Vincent, and you know it. You have got a chance, but only if you _take it_. And fight for it, for pity’s sake. Or has everything up to now, been so easy you think you can throw in the towel at the halfway point, belly all up? Where’s your unsequenced pride? Your drive? Those pretty little words you use to puff up your dreams, until they could be real, but oh, _ohhhh_ , you balk now, because it hurts, because you’re tired.” Palm smacking on thigh covered in rust coloured slacks, “Well newsflash, Vincent, success hurts. Victory hurts. It all hurts, because it’s _supposed to._ If it were _easy_ anyone could do it! This was the stipulation, my being certain that you were up to the task physically. Turns out I should’ve paid more attention to the mentally bit.”

 

“He’s not some athlete you’re training for sports, you twat,” Heather twisted to admonish him. “He’s not someone you can stand over and yell at to go faster, work harder to reach whatever you think the finish line is! He’s a sick guy who is suddenly stuffed with new gear to help him not be sick, and that takes it out of people, out of _real_ people, not test tube snot babies like Valids are. It’s probably scary, I’d be scared, and locked up with just you and me for company, his body not doing what it usually does, and -”

 

Waggling a finger, snarling, “Don’t you even start, you little tart. Don’t you fucking finish that sentence. I know all about what a body not doing what it’s always done before, don’t you fucking say otherwise.”

 

“Cripple or not, I’ll fucking bash that look off your stupid fucking face,” Heather shoved from the ottoman before Vincent could reach out and try to hold her back, but it was hard, it was hard to not just hang his head in the shame he knew he’d feel, and to have Eugene echo it all right back, all the reasons he should be horrified at the dragging pull of cowardice, hurt in every way it should. “He needs a break, some sympathy, a hug, a friend, and you just sit there scolding him like he’s a disappointing kid you were trying to train beyond their limits, too fast, too hard! Just because he’ll get out of his own chair one day, and you won’t, and he’ll run, and you never will, that doesn’t give you the right to dump your shit all over him. Not that, and not whatever your fancy bloody title is, your designer genes, your money, none of that gives you any right to talk like that! Not to anyone, and not to someone who seems to think you’re their friend. People like you don’t have friends, you don’t even know what it means, it’s all about what you want -”

 

Stopping her, “It’s about what I want.” Vincent sighed, crossing arms over himself, trying to hold in the pain of fullness and unfamiliar damages deep inside. “I wanna go to space. Eugene just wanted to be left alone, drinking himself to death, miserable, with the occasional interruption so dyin’ wasn’t completely empty of warmth before it was finished with him. Pretty much forced my dream on him, wasn’t gonna let him do that to himself, so he let my dream become his, okay? Please, I’m sorry...”

 

”Doesn’t give him the right,” Heather sat heavily back down, shoving herself and the ottoman across the floor, opening the space up. “Sounded just like my da, and not nobody deserves to have that thrown at them. Not by anyone, not ever. Just because you’re body’s not whole like it was, just because you’re a sniveler wanting to curl up and die,” scanning Eugene’s legs up to his face, “doesn’t mean you can take that out on people. No excuse for it, especially not when you keep biting the hand that feeds you something other than the misery you were sucking down. You’re an ungrateful bastard, Eugene Morrow, spitting out whatever kindness and gifts life offers you along with the tiny bit of nothing to you, that’s hope to him. You just want someone to rule, someone to make miserable whenever it suits you.” 

 

Eugene kept his face to the side, ducked, fingers digging into knees the only visible sign of strain, the rest of him utterly motionless. Vincent could barely make himself glance up enough to see that. None of that was what he thought, he was just tired, and he thought maybe...maybe he could understand some of how much it cost Eugene every day to get up and do whatever Vincent was forcing him to do...

 

“Quite finished?” two words hanging in the air. “Or shall I wait here for more? You’ve yet to bother delivering upon your threatened blows, or was that part of the hot air you were -”

 

Heather was up, fast as a snake strike, and the sound of impact on flesh was hard, up and down so fast, Vincent hadn’t been able to track it. “Plenty of force to go with my words, all you’ve got is poison and bite.”

 

Eugene’s lip was busted, ruby red bubbling up on the center of the bottom lip, fingers reaching up to touch and check the smear over the fingertips, “More than you could imagine, sweetheart, but it’s wasted on you. Do whatever it is that you’re going to, provide that shoulder, that cuddle, that sympathy, that Vincent does indeed deserve. My presence is more than clearly unneeded at the moment.” Heading to the door, “Whatever you do, do it well, so it sticks to him. Pity you weren’t around when I was in the same predicament, I would’ve paid top dollar to see either of my parents laid out, it’s the being defended and cared about that wouldn’t have been understood, they’re unfamiliar in that world.”

 

The practiced sound of crutches grabbed, switched to, the wheelchair collapsed, door opened and closed, and Eugene left without further fuss. And now Vincent wanted nothing more than to find a deep, dark hole to crawl into, and forget everything, everywhere, forever. His resistance to being pulled into Heather’s arms was minimal, to the way she shifted easily onto the couch, back pressed to an armrest, one of her denim clad legs sliding under his covers to be next to his, the other following suit, framing him. She smelled of cinnamon and tea leaves, strong tea leaves, but the few strands of hair that fell forward and into his face when she rested her cheek on his head, smelled of chemical bright strawberries and cherries. 

 

She squeezed him, held him tight, didn’t let go, and Vincent let his cheek rest where it would against her chest. Her heartbeat was wrong, it was steady, but it was wrong, and his eyes scrunched closed. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be cradled like this, knowing far more of Eugene’s history than what Heather possibly could, and how very little the other man had any idea how to give that sort of thing that she figured was easy. Not that Vincent was much better than Eugene was... 

 

“Where would he go?” asking because he should, because it hurt to not know, because something should at least be said, when he didn’t think he could muster anything else, let alone real, to say. 

 

“There’s a few cafes, pubs,” Heather shrugged, uncaring. “The local next door would be my bet, nice and dark and broody and easy to get a wheelchair in and out.”

 

“Oh.” That was good. It was close, too. Eugene would be safe. 

 

“Umn, sweetie,” Heather interrupted his empty thoughts that still were snarling and snapping at one another, too broken and exhausted to call the ugly cycle quits right then. “How often...how often does he go off on you like that?”

 

“Once,” answering. “Sorta. Otherwise, we just, it just, everythin’ comes out in stupid sometimes. Snarlin’ back n’forth, because we ain’t know what the other one’s sayin’, and get scared. Doesn’t actually happen as much as it feels like sometimes, it’s just more than I’m used to.” Sighing, eyes closing, blocking out the sight of his own wheelchair, “He hasn’t had it easy either, and I don’t mean the handicap stuff. However upset and fuckin’ nasty as he was, that’s nothing to what he grew up with, what they do now, even. They want him dead, or at least dead to their world, thrown out, and the people he’d belonged to -”

 

“Not enough good reason to be a bastard like that to you,” Heather reiterated. “You just needed someone to tell you it’s gonna be alright, and it will be, someone to tell you it’s alright to feel like that, you hear? It’ll go away, and you’ll be alright, better than alright, you just needed to say those things, be heard, be told by somebody else it’s only for awhile, and held all nice and safe... My little brother’s the same way,” came with another squeeze. “If he comes back pissed, I’m throwing him on the settee anyway, and tuck him up around you so he’s got no excuse to get wrong that bit of what you need.” She grunted, curiously, “I’ll drop it, promise, but tell me true, have you two stopped shagging each other’s brains out? Blokes get extra stupid if they do that, all frustrated, useless arseholes that need a frying pan upside their heads if bumping uglies doesn’t happen before they get worse.”

 

“Day before the chest surgery,” Vincent replied, not wanting to stir up any memories in that department. “Not gonna change until Dr. Oda says all clear.”

 

“That’s dreadful,” mouing with distaste. “She said four weeks, minimum, no way, if you go that long, you’ll both do something stupid if you don’t get reacquainted before your brains take over your mouths and start running. You two are seriously messed up cocksuckers, and the only way to get through that sort of disability, is to show frequently, in all kinds of ways, what your brains try to go all blustery senseless twats on if left on their lonesome. You two basket cases have way too much baggage to work through if what I’ve been seeing everyday is anything to go by. And it was all so cute and cozy until the things got lost in translation when one of the messier, sweatier, funner ways of getting through to one another, was taken away. Not good! Not good, at all, no sir, I don’t like it, and you shouldn’t be taking his ‘but the doctor said’ spiel anywhere but to the rubbish. So you got to be careful of the new chunks, no biggie for two big brainiacs to find a sweet spot that lets you have fun, and not worry too bad about some strain.”

 

He agreed, but didn’t say so. “He’s afraid of me dying, being hurt. When I was born, they said my expiry date was just over thirty, I told him that, and I think it’s been eatin’ him up, even after gettin’ here, going through with all this, this surgery and shit...” Clarifying, “I don’t think any other kinda answer will come outta him until he doesn’t think I’ll shatter if poked. Me being like this today...” Vincent shrugged, face mushing into a soft globe of breast, eyes remaining closed, “If the lurkin’ dangers in my genes don’t get me, if the recovering from the strain of surgical repairs don’t leave me susceptible or compromised, well, somethin’ else will come along, and do it. Like me feelin’ like I can’t...like I can’t go on, or do what he does. And I can’t, but he thinks I mean it with the kind of...determination he’s put into stop doin’ whatever it is he can’t do anymore. He’s tried, that I know of, once by car, few times by pills and booze, lots of times givin’ alcohol poisoning another crack at him... There’s others he hasn’t said, don’t think any new ones, but -”

 

“Bollocks,” cursing. “That’s just brilliant. Dumb, but makes sense, stupid, but brilliant. Can’t see that not everybody else is willing to go to the same lengths to checkout that he has. Still - like yelling at you’s gonna make you toughen up, give you a second wind? He’s awful at pep talks. I should go fetch him for another slap, a damn proper one.”

 

XXX

 

Vincent gingerly made his way to bed, Heather long since gone, she’d made him eat even though he hadn’t wanted to. She’d also watched him take his preventative antibiotics meant to ward off any potential infection while the delicate healing was ongoing, then firmly pushed a whole one of his pain pills his way, hands on her hips, stern as a mom waiting for her kid to down whatever oversized horse pill she deemed healthful. Only after he’d done all that, and finished off another big glass of water, did she leave. 

 

Sometimes she fit seamlessly in this game of charades, but when inside the apartment, there was a jangling, one Vincent sensed yet found any actual understanding eluding him. Mostly it came in the form of comments that may start off playful, teasing, snarky sparring between the two Brits, while Vincent was left to watch both aghast and amused. Until there would come some strike or other in the words that flew back and forth between the two, along with frequently thrown items, generally pillows, or a piece of fruit, but once, Eugene had done the unthinkable, and pitched a fine bone china teacup followed by casting the saucer like a frisbee. Heather caught the delicate pieces, putting them away, safe and sound. But still, somewhere in those sessions, something would happen, and Vincent was often many, many steps behind in the game to have caught or noticed when the subtle shift would occur that changed it from play to fight. 

 

Eugene had earlier beat his hasty retreat to the city around them, not because he had to leave, but probably to end the competition before Heather went and bodily _threw_ him out on his ear for having lit into Vincent. That would’ve been a fight, Vincent was certain. Heather was faster and stronger than her tiny, bouncy, compact frame implied, but she didn’t know Eugene. Vincent did. And the Valid had begun a different, joint, shared training regimen with Vincent before they left the States. The man had ridiculous upperbody and core strength, much of it leftover from swimming, but maintained and toned down from day to day general use, since he depended upon his upper body for most everything he could do. There were special resistance bands that Eugene installed and switched out now and again, on his wheelchair while still in England, so as to not completely go back to no training, and those weren’t anything Vincent could mess with at the moment himself. Eugene could make applying fifty, sixty, seventy-five pounds of torque and energy into the wheels by hand as he moved about England look as though there was no resistance whatsoever. If Heather had gone to move Eugene out of the way, with or without the wheelchair, in a fit of anger, she wouldn’t find the Englishman a docile or weakened target. Not the way Vincent was now, and would remain, however long it took for the grafts and shit to settle in, heal up, and all the things that sounded so clear cut in theory, but when living with it, not so much.

 

All Vincent had left was careful stretching, and as it was, he was beyond tired from the trial, but the morphine was doing its work rapidly, no matter that his stomach was cushioned with plenty of food to slow the tablet.

 

Eugene did eventually return as he would have to, and it was accompanied by snarling, cursing, not alone, and Vincent, having dozed off, bedside lamp still on, he muzzily tried to pick out the voices. Eugene, that was obvious, it would cut through and over anything, a regular battlefield tenor in terms of that ability and the general vocal range, but even when ugly and angry, it was still a beautiful voice. The second was...wasn’t Heather, like some portion of his brain figured it should be. Instead, it was a dancing, lilting, higher pitched and the accent was different, probably male, if way higher than Vincent would usually consider. 

 

Gingerly sitting up, worried, knuckling eyes, and almost hissing himself, realizing that much of why his eyeballs hurt, was that he’d fucking forgotten to take out his contacts for the night. Well, at least he could see, after blinking away any remaining sleep-goop, and he was just preparing to shuffle-slide into his nearby wheelchair, when Eugene staggered to the bedroom door, arm around the guy who owned the other voice that sort of sang when speaking. Both of them were standing, sloppily, drunkenly, but standing, and the other man wouldn’t be surprising in that regard, but Eugene was.

 

“Hello darling! Miss me?” Eugene called with a dopey, drunk grin, as though the distance from door to Vincent was halfway across the Englishman’s condo near Gattaca. “Oh-oh-oh, sweetheart, don’t get up, look, I’ve brought a friend!” Gesturing, pointing, with a hand that held a brown paper sack wrapped liquor bottle, “This-this is _Paul._ ”

 

Vincent winced, finger wiggling in ear, “I see that.”

 

“Ye’ve gone an’ woke the lad up, Jerry,” Paul protested, worried. “He looks a mite bit poorly, I don’t think he’s even up for a drinkie with us, aye then?”

 

Jerry? Great, what game was Eugene playing now, and that didn’t even touch the easily standing upright mystery. Vincent wasn’t going to like any answers he received, if he even got them, so didn’t bother asking. Maybe something would come out by morning, otherwise...

 

Carefully sitting up straighter, until his back was against the headboard, “I’m awake now, I guess. Can’t drink, but -” he shrugged. Probably best somebody kept an eye on them anyway. At least on Eugene. “Don’t let that stop you guys from takin’ a load off or anythin’.”

 

“See? I told you, he’s far too reasonable,” Eugene complained, smiling, eyes bright, and the steps were taken to flop onto the bed, and while sloppy with drink, again, otherwise, they were completely normal, as though Eugene’s spinal cord graft hadn’t been partially ruined by force-training it before it had fully grown and taken root, bonding to Eugene’s natural one. “Everything they say about America is a lie. They say it’s dirty, it’s not, it’s _not_ , not from what I’ve seen, and I’ve scraped its underbelly a time or two!”

 

The pair laughed at that, like it was a great joke, and Vincent suppressed a sigh. Reaching for a book he’d left lying around on the nightstand a few days back, he wondered what the hell was going on, what he was supposed to do about it, and what it would do to tomorrow - in the latter case, more specifically, how badly off would Eugene be for whatever antics he had gotten into.

 

“Herenow if he’s what ye found there, then I’ve just picked my next holiday destination, see if what _I_ can dig up that ye overlooked in the muck when ye found this one is even better,” Paul smirked, taking a swig.

 

Eugene snapped, the laughter falling away, moving to quick anger, just like any drunk, “Shut up, I don’t want to hear that nonsense. Vincent’s my friend, you insipid Paddy, like I told you. Besides -” gaze swinging to him, and Vincent raised both brows as Eugene pressed the book in his hands down with the butt of the bottle, “you don’t find what you’re looking for when you’re looking for it, and definitely not from an intermediary.”

 

Paul snorted, took another drink from his own brought along bottle, and Vincent watched the space at the end of the bed become crowded, Eugene stretching out on his side like it was a picnic, while the Irishman - which is why the accent was unfamiliar and so sing-song to Vincent’s ear - sat legs akimbo, shoes still on, while making himself situated atop bedding and leaning against footboard. “Ye could’na find anythin’ fer yerself, Jerry, never could. Always need a go between, or mebbe yer pretty hands might get dirty.”

 

“It’s been years, you moron, things change,” the dark blond brows drew in tightly over his nose. “Not everything, but most things. Like,” Eugene looked away finally, breaking the peculiar stare, and made a disapproving face at Paul, “you. Look at you, in this region of London. Fancy that! It’s not your kind of place, now is it, unless of course that’s all changed, now, hasn’t it. And this, and this!” Reaching out, slapping at the feet covered with shoes, “You filthy bastard, just because you’re Irish, doesn’t mean you’re supposed to be tracking dirt everywhere, like in a man’s bed! Not even (in)Valid potato farmers do that, look at you, you know better, but never acted better, damn. _That_ hasn’t changed a bit, and too bad about it!”

 

“Aye, who cares what then?” Paul jerked his chin up. “Ye got yerself back here in England, not seein’ fit tae send no word tae yer old friends, ‘course you’d stumble intae some of us. We’re all still the same, yer right, but better -” waving a hand at Eugene’s legs, “leastwise, ye’re doin’ well, plain tae see. Walkin’ ‘round like nothin’ never happened. But what’s all these granny chairs fer? Mebbe keep ‘um ‘round fer old times sake, got ‘um all broken in, an’ likin’ the familiar bits tae it, aye? Or did ya break yer (in)Valid already, and that’s why ye deigned tae come across the way back tae yer home soil?”

 

Sarcastically, snorting into the book he was mostly pretending to read, “He got better, obviously.” 

 

“You hear that? You see, I got better,” Eugene agreed, ignoring the question about Vincent. “The spinal graft simply needed a repair, bit of smoothing or other... Now I’m fine, but I don’t want my family to know that, the fuss they’d make? They’d probably try to make me come back here permanently, while thank you, I much rather the States. It’s quieter there, and I don’t have to trip over proles every time I go down the street. And there’s _sun_ , real sun, most of the year. Can’t get that here,” finger waggling in a circle, encompassing London itself, but the entire set of islands, “now can I? There’s sun, there’s beaches, people are so perfect at minding their own fucking business, you’d think it was a whole ‘nother dimension.”

 

Paul wanted to buy it, his booze soaked brain thinking it sounded plausible, and Vincent wondered if he could send him on his way, both of them if need be, for whatever they planned to do. “So why’re ye both here, then? Why come a’tall if it’s not tae reclaim yer proper place, take up whatever it is yer folks feel like givin’ ye after ye’ve futtered off fer so long?”

 

“Boating accident,” the lie rolling free from Eugene. “It was my fault, and I wasn’t going to let dear Vincent be left out on the lurch, seeing as I’m all too well acquainted with what being thrown overboard by friends and family is like, or run under the coach, or tossed to the train tracks... You understand, of course, clearly. Always knew I could do better than you lot, and here I am, better, and I don’t need to kiss anyone’s ass either, unless I’m so inclined. Alittle time, attention, effort, not being an utterly, conceited, fuckwit all the time like yourself, making right anything I’ve done wrong on the rare occasions it happens...”

 

Paul frowned, the not-so-subtle insults working through the alcohol, “People don’ change that much, Jerry. Not ye, ye can’t. It ain’t in yer genes, it ain’t in yer blood, or yer quality, or yer family name. Ye can’t change yer spots anymore than a leopard can. Yer exactly what’cher people designed ye tae be, an’ that don’t change no matter what hat ye cover yer crown with.”

 

“If that’s what you hafta tell yourself to sleep peacefully at night, sure, Pauly,” Vincent didn’t look up from the book, turning a page. “Easier than tryin’ to live up to his score, right? Any of them, not the genetic scale, not the social one, you can’t even string a sentence together without speaking gibberish thick enough to be used as glue. You can’t hack it, the base material wasn’t anywhere near the same, is my guess, and all the rest, hadn’t any chance of levelling the playing field for you..” 

 

Eugene, chin in hand, smiled indulgently at him, “Dearest, you truly do know how to flatter a man.” Twisting to look at the Irishman, “See? I told you, he’s perfect. And mine, so don’t go running off, getting ideas, this isn’t Cambridge, I’m not that much of a pushover anymore.”

 

Pinch-rubbing the bridge of his nose, Vincent closed the book, “If this is gonna be a bragging rights session, I’m gonna need it to be continuing elsewhere, otherwise, Jerry’s got better things to do with the rest of the night. And I’m actually kinda bored watching him dance circles around an inebriated fair weather leech. He’s drunk enough to find it amusing, you’re drunk enough to know it’s happening, but too far to figure out how to even begin trying to outclass ‘im...and it gets sorta embarrassing after a few minutes.”

 

“Feckin’ shut yer pie-hole, ye genetic mistake, don’t talk tae yer betters like ye gots the stones tae back it up -” Casting a glance at the nearby wheelchair, sneering, “Yer a fuckin’ cripple too, ain’t ye. Mistakes like ye shoulda been done away with long ago, an’ not sullyin’ up the air with yer yappin’ like ye’re anythin’ but a feckless poof’s live in booty fer as long as he’s interested. Get a clue, lad, a month or two more, an’ he’ll be droppin’ ye, an’ ye’ll be stuck thinkin’ ye can put on airs, see how far that gets ye in the world, it ain’t far a’tall.”

 

“If there was a better than me in the room, other than Jerry, I’d be glad to actually have another person around worth talking to, not a bottom of the bottle soaked toff,” pulling out a few pieces of something he’d heard Heather say, and Eugene began to chuckle, smothered at first, and then louder. “(in)Valid or not, recovered from surgery, I could take you down, back anything I say up, happy to demonstrate, but only if you could just dry out enough to be worth the bother, I don’t enjoy broken dance partners. Pretty sure Jerry brought you here to get taken down a few pegs for old time’s sake, so consider your licks given and go on to whatever sorry flop you call home, you’re not welcome here. You stink like a distillery usin’ sewer water for their brews, and it doesn’t belong anywhere near actual human beings.”

 

Eugene tucked cheek over Vincent’s nearby knee, “You heard the man, it was all in good fun, I should thank you for reminding me of just why I’m so glad to be an ocean away usually. Don’t write, or call, and I’ll make sure to not write or call you! Go on, go on - shoo-shoo! I’ve got what I wanted out of you, don’t make me feel like calling in one of the authorities, that never went well for you, besides, I haven’t got a camera to tape the spectacle, and that’s just not fair -”

 

Pauly bared teeth and shoved off the bed, “Feck ye, yer still a soddin’ useless ponce, like always, ye just got a boy with some teeth tae show off, careful, someone’ll pull’um from ‘is head. Ye want the word tae go out, well no skin from my nose! I’ll see tae it, certain yer dear ol’ma deserves a visit from her boy, an’ yer dear ol’da, whatever game ye think ye can play on them walkin’ or no, ye’ll get yers, like always, Jerry. Ye never were so special as ye always thought.”

 

Watching Paul stomp and tromp through their apartment to the front door in the other room, and Vincent only heaved a sigh of relief once the door slammed closed, while Eugene sucked from the bottle’s neck, unconcerned. Seal of full lips popped, releasing the bottle’s rim, “I think that rather went well, I must say I’m pleased, that was lovely form on your end, darling.”

 

“Do my best on short notice,” trying for dry, but instead it was irritated, and the Englishman’s gaze swung up to look at him, having picked up on it, and the expression prompted - demanded, politely - an explanation. Which was fucking wrong, if anyone needed to explain, it was Eugene for the unexpected, uninvited show, at best, and for the being up and around, without even a cane to help, and no dragging feet. “Tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on. Gone all night, carousin’, bringin’ old buddies here when you said we’d be avoidin’ them...”

 

Bottle upended partially, alcohol sloshing, green gaze mild, expression unperturbed, “Care to be more specific? Is there a particular part you’d like me to start at? Or would you just like a villain’s deposition, from cradle to tonight, somehow including the list of not questions you’ve given...” Rocking on his side, weight on elbow, the image of eagerness, “What’s your pleasure, darling, I am yours to command.”

 

Not knowing if he wanted to smack, shake, or brush a loose curl that had fallen over the golden forehead, Vincent folded his hands in his lap, a sigh blowing through his nose. “Fine, who was that?”

 

“Pauly, like I said,” succinct, another drink taken. “Lord Paul Mac Eoin Bissitt, actually. He may’ve had some downgrade in status, that family’s enormous, breed like they’re rabbits on meth, and every last one of the brood’s Valid. It’s a wonder the women’s wombs don’t plum fall straight out. Always the English wannabe, though, our dear little Paul. He’s rarely more than a pub crawl from disinherited usually, likes his drink, likes his fights because his whiskey dick is legendary in its impotence and makes him angry, and he doesn’t care if his ruckus is caught on camera and with the police. Very embarrassing to his family which made it very amusing to the Cambridge set. He’s on first name basis with far more people than someone that bothersome has a right to be, but it’s usually lots of cursing around that first name, so perhaps it’s not so bad.” Eugene rolled over onto his back, hand going back to slip between Vincent’s upraised knee and the back of his head, cushioning it, “Should’ve stuck a knife in his kidney when I was younger, I just guess I wasn’t thinking so far ahead, could’ve been rid of his nuisance years ago when it would’ve made life vaguely more pleasant, and this friendly introduction wouldn’t have occurred, as he’d be pleasantly, usefully, _dead_ and not stumbled on in the second pub I entered, sucking on a keg in an area of London that his circles don’t touch - too middle class, ugh, educated working people can be offensive to the delicate mores of some.”

 

Picking out the important part, clarifying, “So now there’s gonna be trouble, because the tosspot can’t hold his liquor or his tongue?”

 

Joyful laughter, head rocking back, “Vincent, dearest, you really are in fine prickly form. It’s perfect! At this rate, you’ll be able to enter even the nastiest, most closed rank, inbred socialite tier, and pass as one of their own if you utilize such a sublime grasp of insult. They’re always smiling, Vincent, glittering, and happy, carefree, and ever so crafted, and they say such sweet things, that are so poisonous, yet plausibly deniable. You’ll cut through them like a quiet, hot knife stirring a tub of margarine.” The smile faded, and Eugene reached up, bottle tucked and propped against his side, fingers twisting and gaining a hold in Vincent’s shirt, forcing him to bend down closer, “ _Never_ let them cut you with what they say, don’t show it. _Never_ be anything but the quietly superior man playing their peer, ready to aim _right for their gizzards_ since they haven’t got hearts. And yes,” letting go, “yes he’s going to bring trouble if he can remember to when his hangover wears off... Blast, it never does, he just drinks more, forgot that part, wonder if he’s actually had to replace that liver by now? It’s taken a beating worse than mine ever has.”

 

Groaning, Vincent clambered out of bed, taking slow steps around the end, his feet tender still, and sat, starting on Eugene’s shoes, at this rate, the man wouldn’t ever manage to get fully into bed, which would result in no comfortable sleep for either of them. “Fine, we’ll handle it. Don’t let me in a room alone with your family, remember. Your friends, it’ll depend on if they’ve poked the hornet’s nest or not.”

 

Eugene hummed, watching, “We’ll have Heather as backup, I suppose. She can hold her own against them, too, and maybe keep your temper in check if it came to it. Or do something startlingly crass and bash someone’s face in with a serving plate, though I hope she’d be able to pick the choicest time to do it, where others can see what might have brought it on, and more importantly, a tiny, defenseless (in)Valid woman, breaking someone’s expensive face into a bloody mess. That might be fun.” Heaving upright, hands gently, very gently, pushing away Vincent’s as he’d finished with shoes and socks, and had moved to handle fastened trousers and belt, “There won’t be any of that tonight, darling, doctor’s orders.”

 

“Not what I’m aimin’ for,” snorting at him, returning to the task. “You’re not the nicest of bedmates when you’re sprawled halfway this and that, like a plate of spilled spaghetti. Want you up where, or at least closer, you’re supposed to be, so I don’t wind up with a crotch full of elbow, blankets yanked your way completely, and teeth in my knee.”

 

The Valid gave him a measuring look, shoulders going into a slump, and began to assist in undressing himself. “Have you been doing your right handed practices?”

 

“Nah, been goin’ for jogs around the block, helpin’ old ladies cross streets, and hittin’ on all the pretty girls,” snorting at him. “Of course I been practicin’ it. Why couldn’t you be a leftie? Just hadta be a rightie, and worse, you got penmanship that’s more caligraphy than anythin’ anybody’d be able to read. Real pretty, but not-” pausing briefly to press a kiss to Eugene’s frowning lips, “- very practical. And you call my celestial navigation stuff outdated, if that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black...”

 

“It’s not a game, Vincent,” still serious, drunken serious, that hadn’t faded. “You’ll be called upon time to time to do more than sign a dotted line or document. It’s another layer of Jerome Morrow to incorporate until it’s more familiar than your own, natural hand. Tonight -” lips going tight, “was a learning run. There’ll be more, there’s always more, they don’t end, unless you leave, and then, only your part in those games stops. The elite in your homeland aren’t as bad, they’re not quite as settled and established, they don’t have the same titles, the same history, but make no mistake - _they are still very dangerous_ and _very_ brutal in their own fashion than the overt excesses on display here. If you can survive here, learn all you can here, it should give you an edge anywhere else.” Vincent felt his jaw being traced on either side, “You were only supposed to suffer the interventions necessary to buy you a lifetime of health, some exposure, some - some small practices, learning by observing like you often do. Not this. God help me, it’s what I’ve been trying to avoid since fleeing Cambridge and the public humiliation Jonathan brought down on my head at graduation...”

 

Vincent grunted, moving to sit beside Eugene, hands curling around the edge of the bed, “No gene for happenstance, and so what, it’s another suckerpunch to learn from. Guess I got my tribulations to learn from, you got yours. But this time, we know what they don’t - we don’t want whatever they think we want. They don’t got anythin’ to bring to the table, but think they do, and we’re just here learnin’ them inside and out, and then we’ll leave, the rules to the game they were playin’, weren’t the same ones we were. Just gotta keep them thinkin’ they have all the cards, know the game bein’ played, and we can learn their bluffs, their plays, then cut and run when we got all we can squeeze outta them for our own purposes back home, with a different, similar set, of players waitin’ at the table for us, and even them, they think there’s more in their hand to play of worth, than their one card - space.” Running a hand over golden bare shoulder, “It’s our game, Eugene, we make it ours, a game within their game that works right through all their plotted subgames, because nobody’ll ever look for it...nobody’s got any real power over us if we don’t let ‘um.” Bumping shoulder, “ _Definitely_ not some sleazeball cheatin’ on his wife with a kid who he’s only usin’ to shoulder his way inta every open door that boy’s willin’ to open for him, thinkin’ there’s feelin’s that smarmy fuck shares and’s been lyin’ about...and whatever else it is he did. He can’t do nothin’, not where it counts. None of’um can.”

 

That felt better, and after Vincent had taken out his contacts for the night, gone to check the front door’s lock, the small table lights all off, he gratefully rolled to face and curl around Eugene. Seemed like it was his turn anyway, and holding him close, his covered chest pressed to the bare back, Vincent swore he could still feel the strong heart pumping life through Eugene, the vibration of it steady and comforting to the internal places that would continue to ache for some time longer under the strain of repairs. Nose rubbing against nape of neck, eyes drifting closed, squeezing closer, the discomfort of not being closer still was shoved aside, tucked away, left for another time.

 

“Vincent,” fingers weaving slowly with his, bringing them up to rest over sternum, “I didn’t always get up every day to face anything. Alcohol, the occasional illicit drug, they made it so I could pretend I didn’t care about having to do anything, or how much even the easiest tasks were no longer available. I still can barely do so, the days where I wanted to quit, tried to quit, were my nightmarish reality, one I was so desperate to escape, that the only route that actually held out a hope for being anything like I had known all my life prior, was abused, for hours, mere minutes, of reprieve from my hell.” A leg moved against Vincent’s, easily, smoothly as his own, hooking, and tugging him just that small amount more snuggly, “This is false. It will last almost a day the first few uses, but when it wears off, I’m left bedridden, in agony, all but helpless. The trick is to inject a fresh dose before the prior one begins to wear off, but not too soon either, as it raises the body’s tolerance, shortens the efficacy of the drugs. Almost a day swiftly becomes every handful of hours, and a madness to not face the world without full control, takes over. Doesn’t matter that spacing out occasional uses works best, providing the occasional opportunity to tango, to run, to jump, to walk without visible deformity, just for the almost forgotten ease of it, or perhaps saving those times it’s used for emergencies, when hale and whole are all that will do...”

 

Nose rubbing into the warm flesh near it, “What is it?”

 

“A lie, one of the worst ones around, and I’m just glad that I bought a supply that cleaned out German and every local cache willing to deal with him quickly, solely on the whim of wanting to dance with you in Hyde Park on a Sunday evening, when some of the gazebos hold musicians,” sighing. “It’s a lie that you know is empty, a false promise with a high cost, but it’s a necessary lie sometimes... If we have to risk certain circumstances...it’s good that I’ve got it. Lola should have some, or know where to obtain more -”

 

“How long since you quit?” tucking his chin over Eugene’s shoulder.

 

“Since they told me the graft had done all it could, that they weren’t certain what compounds and what I had done to myself, beyond do my damndest to burn myself out, break everything down -” sighing. “Not so long after that. It’s rare, expensive, and I was having to use it every half hour to keep my body going by the end, double doses, and I didn’t care about the crash that had been delayed for so long, I only wanted my legs to work a little while longer, just...just a little while longer.” Mournful, “All I wanted this time, was just a brief moment to not just _feel_ my body, but to be able to use it. To act whole, to _be_ whole, with you there.”

 

That...that was, yeah. Vincent felt that, felt that want right in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t even considered it a possibility beyond what was already available, which had been plenty. But a few minutes of seeing Eugene stride around, puffed up, movements easy, no help needed, any return to what Eugene clung to as the ideal of his own body’s ‘wholeness’... That was a very, very intoxicating lie to catch hold of and use, telling it until there was no more choice other than to watch it all dissolve. 

 

“New Years, on the beach, special occasion like that, that would be alright, in the future, maybe,” promising, soothing. “Right now, if you think this is the option you gotta take to survive this shit, then I’m with you, hundred percent, as always. Ju-just don’t hurt yourself, please, alright, don’t do it any longer than you absolutely gotta. Don’t take dumb risks, neither, not for a thrill, not for a dare, or ‘cause you didn’t look around to see if some other route’s open. Love you as you are, but that’s not just givin’ me a hard time, that’s like, that’s tryin’ to ram somethin’ into my chest and twist it around to see if it’ll hurt me.”

 

Like storming off to a few bars, some point using a scary sounding drug that had in the past, left Eugene with dashed hopes, but more than someone else in the same position could ever hope to have. Like spending gobs of money on something that wouldn’t last very long even when resistance to the drug wasn’t high. Getting shit faced, bringing people back without warning, no clue as to what was expected to play off of the scenario...


	10. Chapter 10

Heather wasn’t happy with either one of them the next day when she came in to see if they had any plans. They were in a sorry state, both of them, Eugene more than Vincent, which was a brief flip compared to the recent days after the big surgery. She didn’t scold, and for that, Vincent could kiss her. There was an impatiently tapped foot, a glower, arms crossed, and a heaved sigh with hands being thrown in the air, but that was it and that was plenty acceptance of the situation they were in. Vincent could do for himself so long as he continued a slow, steady pace, but Eugene was drenched in sweat, face red, hands red, knuckles bunched and tight and red except where they were white, as he forced his body to remain locked motionless. By that very behaviour, he knew just how high the cost for a few hours of being able to walk around really was. 

 

Nice little daydreams of occasionally paying that fee for a dance, a walk, or whatever Eugene came up with, suddenly didn’t seem worth it. Not while witnessing the frozen jaw, teeth grinding together to better hold back any sound of pain. The ravaging heat that beaded sweat on Eugene’s brow, not like a fever, but like overexertion from a workout pushed far beyond anything it should have been, until collapse followed. No bit of laughter was worth doing that much damage to oneself. He wouldn’t stop Eugene from making that choice if he really wanted to, but it would have to be for Eugene’s fulfilled whim, not Vincent’s, not ever, he refused to be the reason of that much pain done to him.

 

“Fentanyl?” Heather had come back to their room, an enormous tote in tennis court green that looked like a beach bag or one for someone who liked to pack too many things for just a gym visit. It unfolded with a few strategically unclipped buckles, and neatly spread, unfolded, in multiple directions, more medicines in one spot than Vincent had ever seen first hand, “Patches, injections - what kind of pain you got, Goldilocks?”

 

Shallow breathing, small shake of head, “It shall pass.”

 

“Oh-no-no-no, mate, you’re not playing a tough boy card on me today, nuh-uh, not on my watch,” she had picked up a syringe after a lavender glove was yanked and snapped on, and she waved it at him. “Pick your poison, or I’ll just load up the barrel with what I think’ll work, and keep experimenting until we find one that does. Doesn’t matter that you’re a royal prick, I don’t hate you enough to want to watch a floorshow of you being a hardass so bad that you can’t even let yourself breathe regularly.”

 

“Heroin,” the word barely intelligible, “lovely, old fashioned stuff.”

 

“Alright Oscar Wilde,” snorting, she began looking closer, and Vincent leaned in, lending his own aid to the search. He found it first, passing her the index and middle finger sized vial with its clear contents. Heather was fast about it, the pain medication delivered into one of the deep veins in Eugene’s arm that had been brought to the surface with the straining aftermath he was caught up in. “That should hit in a few seconds if it - oh there we go, that’s much better, now isn't it, luv?”

 

Vincent felt his own tension flowing away as he watched Eugene’s expression quickly ease up. Stroking back hair from the high brow, “Thanks, Heather. I only know bits and pieces ‘bout that sorta thing... Just enough to take care of me, treat a cold, hangover, little things.” 

 

“Better than nothing,” she reassured, fingers nimbly taking apart the syringe, throwing it into small boxes that were filled with some sharply medicated and bleach-like smelling gel, and she shook them thoroughly, before setting them on the dresser on the opposite wall. Enormous medicine bag put back together, that too joined the leftover food looking containers, “That should help him rest for awhile, you up for breakfast, babe? You’ve got your own meds to take, and you’re not even going to _think_ about skipping a dose. If you get an infection, that’s it! So, get your bum outta bed, use the loo, brush your teeth, and toddle your rear end to the livingroom when you’re done with that, so you can get stuffed with food, then your meds. After that, I’ll roll you or you’ll waddle back in here, to keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty, and maybe not fret too much.”

 

Over breakfast, Vincent explained what Eugene had relayed on the important parts about the crap he’d used to be all ambulatory... Like what it was supposed to do, how it would decrease in usefulness with frequent recurrent doses, how, once it wore off, it extracted its payment in the coin of pain. Heather listened, guessing where Eugene’s supplies of it were - easy enough, considering that it was the satchel that Vincent hadn’t checked himself, having forgotten that the other man never answered properly about its contents, beyond the label on it stating it was medically necessary. Ampules that weren’t much bigger than his thumb, were kept safe, buffered, secure, and protected from any jostling, from outside impacts, and even water, by several forearm long cases that were each packed to capacity...minus one ampule in the top niche of the first case. 

 

“That’s a...” with a soft whistle she ran fingers over the containers, the grooves they were wedged into perfectly fitting so much so, that the passing touch didn’t rotate any of them, even a little bit. “I’ve heard of it. Nexicram. Drug trade’s not my area, escort, bit of bodyguarding sometimes, lots of playing nurse for Lola’s escort talent, sometimes go in and patch up someone at one of the brothels if it’s not too bad. (in)Valids can go to medical school, but we can’t be doctors, but I like this job better anyway, it’s more interesting.” Heather pulled one vial free, holding it up to the light, “It was supposed to be a new way to regrow dead nerves, initially, but it turned out to be better than the adrenal shots, the epinephrines, and stimulants used to keep a patient alive in crisis, or jolt their hearts back long enough for them to be saved.” It was tucked back in place, “Selling point was that it wasn’t a true stimulant, it didn’t risk any other cascading side-effects during operating on the patient or stabilizing them. No brain fog, no interaction with other drugs, alcohol, not habit forming or addictive, since even for Valids who didn’t have an addiction gene, it can still happen if they pop pills like candy, but this was supposed to bypass all that. Clinical trials were amazing, they put it out in war zones, did all kinds of things with it for a couple years, before releasing it to general medical practitioner use, could even find it offered to physical therapy patients some places.”

 

“What happened?” folding his arms on the table, resting his chin on them, listening, and wondering how something that had been that wonderful, hadn’t remained on the market longer. Only if there were a lot of fatalities, bad reactions, would it have been pulled, he figured. “Guess some bad stuff, huh.”

 

“Turns out it causes planned, implanted, Valid pregnancies, to revert to more basic or very recessive DNA sequences,” she shrugged. “Thousands of planned Valid babies, popped out with active recessive traits. So many that it became a lottery if the now, basically, (in)Valid baby would be offered space at a government run (in)Valid orphanage, or if the parents would be encouraged to euthanize their (in)Valid newborns, or terminate pregnancies that looked to be at risk of having been exposed and now might have scrambled DNA codes... No idea how it works that way, I’m not a specialist in pharmaceuticals or genetics. Crowd control, consumer suppression, it’s why there’s so few kids in the UK and Western Europe, in the age range of when this stuff was in heavy public rotation.”

 

“So don’t give it to pregnant women,” frowning, shaking his head.

 

“That’s the worst part, it didn’t take a pregnant woman being given it, to have that happen,” Heather snapped each case closed, stacking them. “Blood transfusions, organ donation, cell transfers, that played a big part, but the public outcry was made to focus on the smaller risk transmissions. If a bloke had received a treatment inside a window of two weeks, and he had unprotected sex with a pregnant woman, or swapped lots of bodily fluids, or one that was planning on getting that way soon - boom. Geneticist nightmare fuel. Nobody wanted to risk it anymore, the producer’s stock market value tanked, it was pulled off of shelves, it’s still made though. The Hyde Group sells it to third world countries that don’t really use sequencing much if at all, since it’s actually pretty good if used the way it’s supposed to be, and a profit’s still a profit. European nations jointly enacted a tight control ban on it, not completely ordering its destruction, or that it couldn’t be used in this part of the world, but it’s not easy to get it. Last I heard about it being used by somebody other than certain conditions, it was during the Olympics a few years back, someone found out because a gymnast was pregnant, and she gave birth to an (in)Valid, and that became a scandal, hard to prove or investigate how widespread its use was... Could’ve been just her, but those kinds of people don’t work that way, they’ll take whatever edge they can get if they’ve got access.”

 

“Yeah, but why would they use it? Eugene, that - that makes sense why, why he’d want it _now_ , though it doesn’t seem to be helping him regrow nerves, it still gets him up and runnin’ good,,” chewing at his lip. 

 

“Doesn’t show up in testing, it can boost performance, all a competitor's nerves and muscles firing at peaks even training couldn’t promise,” Heather shrugged, guessing. “That’s a good reason to do it, but because it’s hard to get, so only the really, really determined ones, who even knew about what it’s off-label use could do for them, would probably have had it. Boogeyman stuff, though. Shoot up, become Superman, at the risk of not passing on your pricy Valid genes that got you so far without it. Most of the athletes competing who’d be tempted to use it, would be second best, older and it’s their last Olympics before retiring, trying to unseat a long term champion, beat a score that hadn’t been topped... Really, why do those freaks do anything, anyway, Vincent?” Shaking her head, taking a gulp of tea, “Who cares about some sport score, medal, name in the books... Nobody cares about that stuff, it’s not even Nero’s bread and circus gladiatorial games. It’s a week or two’s worth of programming, flooding channels, stuffed between romantic comedies, sitcoms, bad movies, and too many commercials. I’ve watched the Olympics every time it’s come on, because there was nothing on the telly otherwise, and I can’t name even one athlete, one winner, what country got a gold or silver. It’s not like league competitions, it’s not anything like that at all, just a bunch of overpowered Valids showing off what nobody else will remember ten minutes after turning off the idiot box.” Crossing her arms atop the table, disgusted, “It’s not impressive, it’s a cattle show.”

 

“It wasn’t nothing to Eugene,” suddenly wondering just where the second place silver swim medal had gone after he had torn it out of Eugene’s hand and thrown into a corner so long ago. He hadn’t seen it since, Eugene hadn’t taken it out, and when cleaning, Vincent hadn’t come across it either. “It was everythin’ he was told he had to be. His family even had his gene scale designation altered when he was little, so he wouldn’t be barred from competing with ‘unfair genetic advantages’, said he’s technically a 9 point 7, not a 9 point 3, but databases are universal, and pull off the same file, so spit out 9 and 3.” Taking his mug of half empty coffee, swirling it around, staring into the shallow depths, wondering if Eugene had used the drug during the swim meet, or only after breaking his back.

 

Another soft whistle, “That’s not easy, that’s backtracking through logs and data from the lab to the place he was born, every doctor’s visit when he was a baby... That’s national registry alterations. He got first, didn’t he? It’s why he’s such a prissy bitch, the big Olympic gold medalist, that’s his big achievement in the world, bully for him then.”

 

“Second,” correcting her, not looking up from the coffee. “He placed second, an’ his people just kinda...second was a losing spot to them, to all of them, so, go play in traffic, dance with that certain special car that’s got its sights set on you, break your back...” Downing the cofffee’s remains, grimacing. “Wake up alive, but not the way you should be, but get told hey, there’s treatments, you can get back to how you used to be with this surgery... Do that, see results, and start pushing to get everythin’ back fast as you can, use a little shot of somethin’ to help performance, plus it helps ignore warning twinges that say you’re pushin’ too hard, too fast, which the docs are saying too, but what do they know, it’s your body...”

 

“Ohmygod,” breathing, pressing a hand to her mouth. “I thought my life was messed up sometimes. Alright, that explains way, way more about your man than I wanted to know, way more than the other stuff you mentioned...explains why he’s tryin’ to make you the best, too, I think... He won’t let you get silver the way he did, won’t let you live his nightmare, whatever he’s got to do to get you where he couldn’t go. Still a raging arsehole how he goes about it sometimes, and not alright at all, but it makes an even more awful kind of sense now.”

 

They sat back, staring into space for a long time afterwards. Thinking. It was just a little thing, one of those threads in the world that wove and tangled here or there, not meaningful for the future, for others, but just a bit of insight, and some more questions that weren’t in urgent need of answering. A layer in the world they lived in, and Vincent decided he didn’t want to know if Eugene had used the Nexricram before, during, or after the Olympics, the timeline wasn’t worth pinning down. Because if it was what his gut said - that only after placing second, only _after_ breaking his back, had he turned to the performance enhancer, then Eugene hadn’t really placed second...not if the swimmer who had received a gold medal had been boosting, using Nexicram during the ‘meet. And if that were so, it would be a cold, cruel, and empty comfort to point out to Eugene, since the damage had been done, been drowned and broken under, whatever life had been built after, was fought for tooth and nail, and shouldn’t be belittled by asking what if’s that would never exist. 

 

Moving back to the bedroom, Heather following, breakfast tray in hand, and intending on force feeding Eugene if necessary, or administering a bit more medicine to make things easier for him, Vincent found the other man on the edge of the bed, hunched over, obviously still in a great deal of pain, but more manageable amounts. “Hey-hey you’re supposed to take it easy.”

 

“The amount of Nexicram I possess, should be sufficient in excess, but I’m unwilling to chance running out at an inopportune moment,” announcing. “As of the moment, the only main concern is Vincent’s continuing medical appointments. That may change at any time, because last night I came upon an unpleasant old acquaintance, who’s not known for discretion, and it wouldn’t matter if he hadn’t been made sport of, or been courted, the bastard would be blabbing it to anyone belonging to my old life that he could think of.” Pausing significantly, “Including my family.”

 

“I don’t like it,” Heather said, shaking her head, and giving him a nudge with a blue sock covered foot to scoot back onto the bed properly, where she deposited the breakfast tray. “I think it’s stupid, I think it’s dangerous, I think it’s risky. But this is you boys’ show, and I’ll pass word to Lola about padding your supplies. She won’t help with slowing down anyone, so don’t ask, those are her clients too in plenty of cases. Now -” turning to the bag of medicines, “you look like steaming shite still, let’s see what I can do about _that_ for you. Vincent, scoot on back too, spoonfeed that man if you have to, so he won’t start planning anything while high as a kite. It’s just time to relax, you can save being shitty for anyone who should be on a short list of people needing a case of the piles.”

 

XXX

Eugene threw an ornate letter he was finished reading, down, swearing. Vincent picked up the paper, nose wrinkling at the weight of it, which was nice, but the colour was some sort of medicinal pink, wafting enough perfume embedded in it that his eyes watered and his sinuses threatened to become stuffy, and when the neatly tri-folded paper was opened fully, it bore ornate letterhead watermarks seen clearly when held up to the light. Personal letterhead, then, offical had embossing, or more easily visible letterhead stamped on it. At least, that’s what Eugene had explained once. 

 

Squinting and rotating the page, the handwriting was pretty he supposed, even more painfully artistic than Eugene’s, to the point of ostentatious. Where Eugene’s letters were crisp, angular, these were fat, round, looping, _bubbly._ Put him in mind of what Mom used to do when dotting her ‘i’s on grocery lists, notes, stuff like that - she’d draw a chubby little heart instead of a plain old normal pen-tip dot. 

 

Holding the pink paper sloped to catch the light best, and hopefully allow his eyes to pierce the dense scrolls and too many repeating flourishing loops, “Your mom, right? I think I see who taught you how to write... Jeeze, can’t anybody do old fashioned standardized cursive anymore? What about a nice, friendly, easy to read regular block print? The American Constitution isn’t even half this ugly.”

 

Dryly, “Be sure to keep your compliments to Mum front and center in your mind, darling, she’d love to hear about your appreciation of her favourite pastime. When electronic mail, a call, even, gasp, a text, will do, a proper letter is all that she’ll tolerate. It’s what ladies of her stature do, write letters, lists, more letters, journals, it hurts my head thinking about how incessant her pen scraping over that atrocious paper is.”

 

“Somebody get that woman a legal pad,” he grunted, beginning to finally make out words in the jungle of flying pen strokes. “Or a secretary, she can pace and look fancy, dictating whatever’s gotta come out of her head and be forcefully shared with some poor slob at least bein’ handled by someone more consistent.”

 

Giving up, Vincent tossed the letter, letting it spin and fall back to the table, and made himself comfortable in Eugene’s usual chair, the big wingback, while making sure there was enough room for the Englishman to squeeze in if he wanted. At the moment, Eugene wanted to pace, doing his own version of it, wheeling back and forth, back and forth, until that wasn’t satisfactory either, canes were snagged and then slipping, gliding steps were going back and forth, and around, their livingroom, to the kitchen, a grumble issued every now and then, and the route continued. 

“Umn, I take it that she’s not askin’ if you’ve been washin’ behind your ears like she always told you to do?” asking. “I can read all sorts of things, but that stuff she calls writing, gives me a headache even worse than whatever it is she soaked the damn thing in.”

 

“The obvious statements are along the lines of ‘I heard you’re in England, I do hope this letter finds you well, thinking of you, your mother.’ Which in more layman’s terms is, ‘If you’re going to bother coming to England, you’d best show up dressed properly, and present yourself forthwith, with explanations as to your business here, when you think you’ll be leaving, and whether or not it’s time to see if you’ve provided a reason so that you can be disowned properly, or if you’ve actually managed to overcome your disgraceful limitations, and are now appropriately willing to do what you are told - thinking of why I even bothered carrying you to term, you ungrateful snot, sincerely, your mother.’ Hah! Wish I could send the reply I’d like to...”

 

Brows up, “That’s a lot packed into a gaudy note sayin’ some not so terrible things.”

 

“Believe me, if you knew the woman,” rolling his eyes. “She’s the nice one, I suppose, more involved. Father only cared if I could haul his golf bag for him, play a bit of polo, and be something he could brag about to his equally vacant and useless friends, and that if I was an embarrassment, then how could he quickly get rid of me, or get me away from where some of his cronies might remember that oh my, he’s my father, and how dreadful that must be, what a curse, what a burden for such a fine man to have Jerome Morrow for a son.”

 

Pointing at him, “Your family. It’s fucked up, super fuckin’ fucked up. What the world needs, is a new plague, spread right up in those sorts of places where it’d get their kind, spice up things on the world stage.”

 

“So you’ve said more than once, though I do like the plague portion, that’s new, do you think we could find some sort of poison that’s easily administered to them, and looks like a plague? That’s a far less risky way of getting rid of them all, plague tends to jump classes, and they’re not the really despicable scum in the world, they’re just casually wretched,” thoughtfully, head cocked, rubbing his chin. 

 

“The letter, Eugene? What’cha wanna do about it? Since plagues and mass poisonings are outta the question,” chuckling, rubbing his still sore chest, which hurt less each day, but felt like it would never be truly back to even his old normal. 

 

Exasperated, “What I _want_ to do to it, is burn it. What I _need_ to do with it, is answer it, it’s just a matter of how, and what steps that may commit us to.” Amending, “Me to.”

 

Snorting, “Us. You doing anythin’ with them alone, totally outta the question. I don’t trust’um.”

 

Eugene continued thinking it over, Vincent grabbed a clean sheet of paper, to practice the Englishman’s script. That it became a brief letter with the counter offer meeting for tea locally, was just to amuse himself. Answering the question of why no contact had been made, that was easy - a son wasn’t being polite if he was going to pester his mother uninvited, which he had taken the sudden halt to the assistance that they had been generously granting him for years prior, indicated. A little flourish of his health being robust, that the air and sun in the former colony had done much to restore him to a better state, and that he had forgotten how stark the difference was with all the greyness, as he’d recalled ‘home’ having more life and colour... 

 

Breath against the side of his neck, an approving hum of lips resting on the back of his neck, “That’s it, you’re perfect, Vincent, it’s really not fair, but I adore you for it.” Weight leaned into his back, “You’ve got the right tone, the right words, the handwriting’s improved so much since you started, but...but I think I’ll recopy it, or she may think my health has actually become truly rotten so that my handwriting’s changed.”

 

“Or she might think it’s kinda scribbly, because you’re piss drunk, and don’t wanna waste the effort on sending her the kind of perfection she would expect as her due,” Vincent made an excuse for the bits of runny edges here and there. Fountain pens were a _bitch_ , and he hated them, but there were no ballpoint pens, gel pens, or anything else remotely sane for someone like Jerome Morrow to use, so Vincent kept up the practice, hoping the lines would stabilize to the point where Eugene was finally satisfied with his script. “I mean, it’s been how long since she sent you a letter or anythin’? Why wouldn’t you be allowed to show off a bit of your own disapproval for her?”

 

“Because,” drawing the word out, “she’s my _mother_. You’re not allowed to do that, unless you intend to be so blatant that nobody could pass it off as being a spoilt, drunken brat, having a fit, and something that would go away with a firm word, and denying allowance for awhile. No fodder for her to chew, my darling, just like you said, we won’t let them have a scrap to pick up and easily use against us.” The explanation was sealed with a quick kiss, coming up with a meeting point, “Let’s use a page from one of those half pads you use for notes. The yellow one with blue lines. She’ll faint from how cheap it feels, and with flawless handwriting, it’ll be the perfect slap in the face. Oh, her only child, oh-oh,” making false upset noises, sitting down, dipping pen, and setting to work on the half-sized legal notepad that Vincent liked keeping around, “he’s hale enough to still bear the years of her perfect instruction in penmanship, but too poor to afford proper paper, because, oh-oh, it couldn’t possibly be she’s worth so little to him that he can’t be bothered to use real paper. No-no-no, certainly not. Perhaps a little wroth, he’s a sensitive boy, always was, prone to his displays of temper, dear-dear, it’s probably an issue of money and bit of temper, no doubt. Meet him for tea, how nice, ply him with gifts or money, whilst wearing that unmoving face she botoxed until it’s a wonder she can move her lips to speak!”

 

Cheek on fist, Vincent watched the theatre with a half smile, the flying of pen over paper, and lifted up at just the right intervals to be tapped or dunked back into the inkpot, were complete with facial expressions, and a hand over breast, or pressed to forehead in a mock faint. It was great to see Eugene excited about something where he could employ all his subtler skills for amusement, uncaring if the recipient realized what was going on or not. It really was a game for Eugene, and often enough, didn’t actually have real weight behind any show of venom or sharp teeth - because weight required feeling, investment, and Eugene didn’t waste himself on those he didn’t have any real feeling for. But those finding themselves on the sharp end of Eugene’s wit and word, didn’t know he couldn’t possibly care less about them, that they weren’t anything but a momentary amusement, while they scrambled to go on the attack or lash out in their own ways, which had no impact because they couldn’t, they weren’t worth any moment of import at all.

 

Sad that his parents, particularly his mother, was one of those number, but Vincent knew enough, had heard enough, to feel somewhat like he wouldn’t piss on the woman if she were on fire. Which actually wasn’t a feeling Vincent liked having, anger was better, except that took more energy than he felt like putting into her, too. Disdainful apathy was easier to maintain, but it too left a mark of discomfort in its wake.

 

Picking up the envelope the pink letter had arrived in, Vincent held it out to Eugene as he carefully blew on the damp inked page, since legal paper didn’t absorb the ink and let it dry as quickly as other kinds might, “Put it in here, slap a fresh stamp on it, and cross out the addresses, so you can rewrite and switch’um. She’ll be disgusted that someone dared muck up her pretty writing and replace it with their own, how insulting, amirite?”

 

Eugene let the letter drop, leaning across the table, grabbing his head between both hands, and kissed him soundly, “You are a fucking wicked man, Vincent, and it’s perfect, she won’t even know what to do! I wonder how many glasses of sherry she’ll toss back to settle her nerves?! Ugh, you marvelous man, has it been four weeks yet, I want to have my way with you, and it’s simply cruel that the damnable date doesn’t seem to get any closer. Blast.”

 

“Heather’s a doctor too,” opening, sounding unconcerned, “she thinks so long as it’s nothing too strenuous -”

 

“No,” tone hardening, shifting back into his seat, the playfulness falling away. “No, I won’t, you need more time to heal properly before we take any sort of risk like that, even a little one -”

 

“It’s not like your spinal cord graft, Eugene,” aiming for serious and gentle, not sure how he succeeded on that front. “It’s not like pushin’ anythin’ so hard that you can ignore the warnin’s from your body, or covering it up with a known performance enhancer. It’s not like that at all, it’s not a competition you’ve said, so no pushin’ like it’s anythin’ that we’d have to throw ourselves into so hard to measure up to anythin’ at all.” Hand sliding over the tabletop to cover Eugene’s, grasping it firmly when the other man began to jerk it away from the touch, “And since there’s no competition, you don’t hafta worry about any place on a podium. You don’t hafta worry that I’ll fail, since there’s no failure in that kinda thing, right? Just - I miss bein’ close, when words aren’t so easy to get all crossed and accidentally say somethin’ this or that way, or...takin’ it wrong, or, anything other than what was meant, both ways. Words are where we trip up, right? Actions too, sometimes, not as often, but, sex with you, it’s like it just...clears up any clutter that we forget to put somewhere else, or that we got distracted by.”

 

Jaw working side to side, chewing over the thought, the automatic ‘no’ held back at least for the moment, and a light flicking lick to top lip, rare nervous reflex, “Ask again tomorrow. It might not be yes, it might be ‘ask me tomorrow’, but I do...I do see your point, it’s that right now, I don’t want to take even a slim risk, it’s too...it’s more than I can handle for the moment.”

 

Knowing that was a better answer than he could have expected, Vincent let it go with a quick smile, “Alright, all a guy can ask for then. It’s good enough for me, though I feel it’s only fair to warn ya, that I’ll just keep checkin’ until it’s a yes, it’s gotta be one eventually, or we’ll both go crazy.”

 

XXX’

 

Rowena Morrow was a terrifyingly beautiful woman. She didn’t even look alive, she was so cut and moulded from golden toned marble, that she could’ve been painted stone. Except her eyes. They were a peculiarly mottled hazel, harder than the edge of an oversharpened knife, she was unliving, beautiful, with a truly unpleasant brittleness to her that set Vincent’s teeth on edge. His first instinct was to march up to her, take out his small utility knife, and rap her on the forehead with the hilt, to see if she’d break apart like cheap glass, or make a hollow sound like a cement statue. Hands casually clasped behind himself as he matched Eugene’s wheelchair speed, he studiously kept himself from voicing any of that, and instead let his gaze wander away from her like he hadn’t been studying her at all. Not that he stopped studying her from the periphery as he let his gaze skip over the quiet garden restaurant, and the privacy enforced by potted shrubbery of the more secluded corner they were aiming for. Her hair was dark, each impeccable wave landing around her sharp, broad shoulders, the shade pretty close to what the roots some places on Eugene were like. Maybe he’d be getting darker as he got older too, time would tell, and Vincent wasn’t too particular in Eugene’s regard, more blond, less blond, more sable or ebony - it was Eugene, that was the important part. Rowena Morrow, though, may have once been blonde, and he didn’t care about that one way or the other. They shared a jaw, a nose, cheekbones, but not eyebrows, hers were as angular as cut glass, there was no soft curve there. The only thing remotely soft in that face was a mouth that was Eugene’s painted in a classic scarlet that few older women could pull off that easily, which, rather than making the mouth more enticing, instead robbed it of the softness that her son’s possessed. Maybe it was something to do with the set of muscles around mouth, in neck...

 

She wore a skirt, blouse, and jacket ensemble that couldn’t be called a suit, nor a dress, in a royal blue. Whatever it was, it was one of those classically chic things that never went out of style with women of certain types, and he didn’t need to be close enough to look at the fabric itself, to know it was only the finest. Terrifying, brittle, beautiful, and reeking of classic money and aristocracy that Vincent hadn’t seen in real life before. He should be impressed.

 

But he wasn’t, he looked at her, and felt a jolt of pity, a reflexive desire to describe her as a tawdry knockoff, somehow cheap in spite of what high quality materials went into her creation, her every line, her every breath.

 

Eugene glided to an easy stop, gravel crunching, a generally unforgiving material for the wheels, but Eugene was a master of operating his wheelchair like an extension of himself, unhindered by little things like broken up rocks. “Lady Morrow,” the greeting holding neither warmth nor cold, and came with only a light nod. 

 

She stared at her son, nothing showing at all in her expression for a moment, before she held out a hand, “Jerome, come here dear, there’s no reason you should keep at such distance with so much formality from your own mother.”

 

“But of course, Mother,” another nod, and he moved himself closer to the wrought iron table that was topped by some kind of wood polished to mirror shine. Inquiring, head cocked, brow up, “If I might introduce you to my companion...?” 

 

Vincent found himself under her gaze himself for the first time, singled out instead of taking them both in as a pair, and he met her gaze, unflinching, for a second feeling like he was staring into the eyes of a gorgon. 

 

“Of course, Jerome, it’s a pleasure to make the acquaintance of one of your friends, you’ve seen fit to do so so rarely before, that I wondered if you had very many to begin with, in spite of your many tales of youthful adventures filled with your companions,” shifting in her seat, legs crossing beneath the table. 

 

Following the subtle flick of finger to one of the several vacant chairs about the table, Vincent steeled himself, as Eugene introduced him, “Mother, this is Vincent, he’s an astrophysicist by education. Vincent, this,” hand coming out, palm up in a languid roll, “is my mother, Lady Marrow.”

 

“A pleasure,” giving the impression of a bow in her direction with a dip of shoulders, and head, hands still clasped loosely behind his back. 

 

She blinked once, a tiny crease between her brows that smoothed away quickly, “Do excuse me, but I didn’t quite catch your accent - you sound American perhaps?”

 

Pulling the chair out, and sitting, feeling every nerve tingling with tension, praying none of it showed, “That’d be correct, Lady Morrow.” Pulling a quick quirk of a grin to one side, “Hopefully my deficiency in that regard isn’t as distasteful as it probably should be.”

 

Beside, but not directly beside him, Eugene scooted deeper into his wheelchair, hands folded over his abdomen, a satisfied smile forming, “I don’t think it’s distasteful at all, otherwise I wouldn’t have lived in that beautiful country so long. If someone else finds it not to their liking, that suits me fine, as it means more sun, trees, mountains, and all that left free for me to enjoy at my leisure. If others only knew how pleasant it really was, there’d be an ill conceived attempt to recolonize, and that just muddies up everything, if there were too many transplants, they’d simply be forced to find some way to ruin the place, it’s what we do when too many of we Brits clump together. It’s dreadful.”

 

“Interesting,” mildly, pretending to hang on the words, while being disinterested, but also Vincent had the feeling she was weighing every single inflection, every breath. “That almost sounds like you’ll be returning, Jerome, and I’d hoped your arrival might last for a more...appropriate tenure.”

 

“No such thing,” Eugene shrugged, picking up his menu. “Don’t say otherwise, Mother, the American fashion of being impatient with jockeying over the trivial seems to have rubbed off on me. Vincent’s sadly found himself to be the patient, reasonable one in this friendship, sometimes I almost feel sorry for him being so damned responsible, especially when he has to keep me in line when I want to try something new, like bowling, which isn’t like our bowling out on the green, you know.” Scanning, then looking up, eyes wide, brows up, in apparent surprise, “I say, I absolutely forgot to ask, I’m so sorry, Mother, how _are_ you, time’s being kind to you, you’re as lovely as ever, do tell me that Father remembers to say so frequently, as he should.”

 

A hint of annoyance, and Vincent briefly glanced at the menu, not really interested in it, only using the downward glance to mask watching Eugene’s mother, and he wondered just what the woman was seeing, what she thought, what the scales measuring worth, cost, effort, social requirements, were doing behind those eyes set in a face that had lent Eugene the bulk cast of his features but none of their substance. “That’s kind of you to say, Jerome. I am, of course, well as you can see, simply disappointed by how infrequent and brief your returns to your family are. Twenty-six is young yet, I suppose, and you’ll be exploring awhile longer, then.”

 

The menu was tapped closed, casually let drop in a toss to the table, and Eugene set both elbows on the table, chin between palms, an impish boy, “Oh Mother dear, let’s not play like this. Shall we come out and air things a bit? Everyone knows I’m too crippled to be allowed to be named a public face of the family. It’s that simple, it won’t matter that many days I can walk on my own, there are too many days where I’m best left in this lovely wheelchair. If someone caught me hobbling around on the days where I still want to stand, but can’t manage unaided, I use a pair of canes to get about, ones just like polio sufferers used, you know, very comfortable, much to my surprise. Father’s taken a beating around the edges of his reputation by his friends’ making sport of him, since that’s what that lot does, we all know it, you needn’t say differently to spare my feelings.” Sunny smile ever so bright, “And you’ve been saddled with the sad task of always answering friendly inquiries about your family in the letters your friends send you, so that you may all maintain your close knit group, that Father is well, and that the last you heard, your errant son was well enough, still recuperating best he can from a broken back. It’s shameful, embarrassing, I know, believe me, I know, seeing as I’m the one stared at constantly, and overhearing badly covered whispers speculating on this or that item of my physical health. Just call me Quasimodo at this point and have done.”

 

“Despicable child,” the two words quiet, barely audible, meant only for Eugene, and only grudgingly said in front of Vincent, a stranger, witness to this family tension. “There’s no need to work so hard at disappointing me with this churlish and irksome part you’re playing.”

 

“Not playing, Mother dear,” sitting up straight, menu picked back up. “Vincent, did you see much of interest?”

 

Vincent took another glance, “The roast scallops with ginger and lime sounds nice enough, unless you’ve a different suggestion.”

 

Rowena Morrow’s face twitched, her long pianist hands shifting on the tabletop, the glittering of precious stones and gold on one wrist sparkling, catching the light, like the pair of stacked rings on one hand, hefty engagement ring with a ruby, and too many diamonds encasing the rest of both bands, until they were difficult to tell apart. “Jerome Eugene Morrow, you’re making a scene, and you know it. Your companion is at least able to pretend he possesses manners, while you’ve turned into a hoyden, tossing them to the winds.”

 

“I didn’t come home to be ordered about Mother, to be ordered to do this or that, to be threatened, hell, I didn’t actually come home at all, that’s back in the States,” absent-minded, focus on a menu that had to have already been so thoroughly read that it was memorized, Vincent had already done pretty good in that department. “You’ve all made your desires abundantly clear in regards to myself, that even if I were to return, we all know no one would wish to take me seriously, a broken, second place Valid. I shudder to think what sorts of deals you would be forced to broker in a bid to find some suitable family with a beddable daughter they were willing to allow being tied to me. Now _that_ would be churlish and irksome, Mother, knowing you’re all fighting to contain impatience for another Morrow generation, so the particular disappointment of Jerome Morrow’s generation can be brushed under a rug. Why, I feel like a maggoty steak thrown down before a few starving beggars, all trying to decide if it’s worth the risk of biting into a few of the critters just to eat what may be tainted meat. I can’t help but feel badly for you, it must be so difficult to face those travails, huddled together, cleaving to the bit of security of name, friends yet loyal, and all that. Not certain how you manage it in that situation, I did it all alone of course, but surely it’s easier to be alone than to have a group to lean on, they have such bigger needs than an individual thrown out to the dung heap alone would -”

 

Sharp crack, hand coming out, and Eugene was smacked, she was shaking, barely contained, “Foul child, despicable, disappointing little boy, why is it you’re even here then if you’re bent on being so twisted?”

 

“My reasons are my own, Mother, and none of your concern, which you made supremely clear with the years of rebuffed contacts, beyond the occasional barely polite worded missive ‘suggesting’ I remain abroad until fully convalesced, while continuing to provide a stipend sufficient to keep me far, far away,” coldly, straightening, tugging and settling his jacket, sneering. “But of course after awhile, why bother with a yearly directive, and continued upkeep, when severing all contact and ending any support, is an even more clear signal of everyone’s wishes, yours chief amongst them, Mother. Short of spelling it out in block letters, you could never be more clear than that, and disappointing as you find me, you can be content knowing I’m at least intelligent enough to read your signals in those departments. So, my life is my own, my reasons are my own, and none of yours, and truthfully, I would have been delighted to not be stuck in this cafe speaking with you, and hadn’t even considered sending any notice to any of those who gladly abandoned me when I was most vulnerable. But, here we are!” Smile back on, “You are after all the one who demanded my presence in your prettily worded manner. Aren’t you pleased that I feel obligated enough to social convention to actually show up? I kept wanting to blow it off, you’ve Vincent to thank for reminding me that I’m generally quite polite to others unless provoked. He’s had a difficult time grasping the complexities of what kind of nonrelationship exists in our pedigree.”

 

None of this was going the way it had been intended, but Vincent could see Eugene’s hands shaking now and again, whatever hand slipping down into lap, became a white knuckle fist. Apparently Eugene did feel enough powerful emotion towards his family to find anger when pricked even a little bit. 

 

“Eugene,” trying, then reminding himself, correcting, “Jerome, let it go, please.” Glad that their area was relatively screened, private, and there were few diners out presently, he ignored all the rules about limiting contact in these settings, and touched the elbow closest to him, squeezing, leaning towards him. “This doesn’t do anything but make you upset, or anyone attached to this, upset. No good comes of it.”

 

“Upset? _Upset_? You think I give two ruddy pennies for their upset?” Eugene twisted towards him, eyes wide, colour suddenly blooming in cheeks, the veneer of humour sloughing off like dead skin. “They’re upset about a backfired business deal, and some public poohpoohing on them, that they can easily recover from, have already easily recovered from. It’s me, it’s _me_ -” finger stabbing in the center of his chest, “it’s me that they put through the grinder, and say I shouldn’t be upset, shouldn’t feel betrayed, after all, I was a step down on a podium they wanted to claim for themselves, and I couldn’t do that, who bloody cares if I destroyed myself training to win. An easily discarded chunk of spoiled meat they’re now considering keeping for some reason now, because wait, isn’t it more worrisome that someone else may get a piece of their property, even if they _had_ thrown it in the rubbish heap with a heave-ho and good riddance?”

 

Carefully stating, his gaze sliding towards Rowena Morrow’s, assessing, then dismissing, she was shaking with her horror and shock, and not worth his attention. “Yes, you’re absolutely correct, Eugene, on all those fronts. But you’ve never been much like them, and upsetting people, even ones you could go a century happily never thinking of, seeing, or hearing, isn’t really your way. It’s theirs, and you left it when you realized you could actually do so without them trying to grab you back like a coin in their hand they won’t spend, while begrudging anyone else the chance to, too.” Firmly, “This wasn’t why you wanted to come, Jerome, and letting them know they managed to do anything to you, even just aggravate you, gives them what they crave, while costing you. Posturing sadists, hiding behind their trappings of grace and poise, they’re cheap copies of something real, and always will be. You may have been engineered with the building blocks to be better than what flowerbed you sprung up from, but you’re the one who did the work, and chose what ‘better’ meant to you. The only ones on the step down on a podium, is them, let them keep it since they wanted it so bad.”

 

Fists tight, slamming to the table, no actual force, it couldn’t be gathered, “ _Fuck._ ” Enough self control dawning, along with a whimper of worry, frustration at having given in to emotions and feelings he had professed to not have, “Please, Vincent, get me out of here, I can’t stand the sight of this place, of this woman, she turns my stomach more than I thought ever possible, get me out of here, I’m not anywhere near alright enough to be myself at the moment...”

 

That was all the direction Vincent needed, and he quickly stood, shoving his vacated chair back in, hands on the handles of Eugene’s wheelchair, turning him to face away from the woman who had birthed him. Sparing her a moment, a perfunctory bow, “Good day, Lady Morrow, we’ll be leaving you, and I suppose I should apologize for any unpleasantness. If you’ll excuse us -“

 

“No,” she’d found some gumption, “No, there’s no excuse, and your request to leave, is denied!”

 

Brow arching, “Last I checked, this was a cafe, not your residence, Lady Morrow. Sorry, maybe some other time, if Jerome changes his mind and decides he can’t bring himself to waste energy on hating you, or letting you and yours hurt him anymore. He’s my friend, Lady Morrow, whether you know what that actually means or not, it’s not my problem, it’s yours. Have a pleasant rest of your afternoon.”

 

Eugene was slumped to one side, face in hand, elbow on one armrest, other hand clutching violently at the end of the armrest, unable to reclaim full calm, and probably not for awhile. Vincent returned to guiding and pushing his friend’s wheelchair, aware of just how badly Eugene had to be doing that he couldn’t bring himself to move about under his own power, and instead ask to rely on someone else. Vincent’s chest ached, and he told himself it was the surgery stuff, not anything else. Near one of the side entrance-exits that was near a parking lot, Vincent paused to ask the host to request a cab for them, before pulling wheelchair and Eugene to deeper shadow, hoping to grant him some illusion of shelter and privacy. 

 

While waiting for the cab, a server came up, small plate in hand, empty other than a folded card, holding the ridiculous thing in his direction, “Are you perhaps Vincent, sir?”

 

Gaze flicking slowly this way and that, keeping an eye out, Vincent half turned towards the white and black uniformed server, “Yeah, yes, that’s me. What is it?”

 

“A note for you, sir,” delivered unblinking, no inflection to indicate that that much should be obvious, and Vincent almost gave the man an irritated look, before deciding it wasn’t worth it, and instead accepted the folded cardstock, the motion quick, and trading the note for a tenner for service. Better to tip and err on it being weird and too much, than to forget, and piss someone off who might find little ways to be unpleasant. “Very good, sir.”

 

Grimacing, he scanned the note, it was just some numbers, and then froufrou, L.M. He could toss it, should toss it, should burn it, but he tucked it into his breast pocket, promising himself to mention it to Eugene later, much later, after resting, calming down, weathering the forceful storm that had clearly violently brewed inside that blond head unbidden, and was unleashed without even a bare intention to do so and no warning whatsoever. He forgot about it as soon as the cab was seen, and Vincent was never so grateful to see a car in his life. Well, there went the chance to study social niceties of the supremely genetic elite and nasty the way Eugene had been so hell bent on throwing him into, certain that if Vincent could handle himself in that setting, anything found elsewhere, would seem tame.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ploooot. Also, if you've been reading this, go back and check chapter 8, I accidentally fubar'd and had doubleposted chapter 7, so now the real and true chapter 8 text is in place.

Eugene wasn’t doing well while Vincent was doing vastly better, Dr. Oda had told him that the additions had taken, and while he’d probably be sore for a fair bit longer, there wasn’t anything left lurking to worry over, loose, or not quite right. Besides his eyes of course, and she had suggested laser, but German had been adamant Stateside that the only way to deal with his myopia while changing his eye colour and hiding any evidence of physical alterations from general observation - was contacts. They were limited in their own way, but not the worst thing, so he had thanked Dr. Oda and declined. With the main surgeries and treatment done, medications prescribed that could easily be refilled by mail, or, back home, by the black market, at least he now knew exactly what meds he’d do best keeping on hand - there didn’t seem to be any reason to stick around in England. Especially as the meeting with Rowena Morrow hadn’t gone well, and Eugene had been a mess in the days since.

“No way,” Vincent snagged the enormous bottle of vodka from Eugene, wondering just where the hell the man had found a place to buy that thing - it was two gallons in size, _gallons_ and took Eugene both hands, and some balancing, to begin to try and get his mouth on the neck on the theater prop sized jug. “Not doin’ this, Eugene. And not with this ridiculous bottle, holy shit,” grunting, hefting it in closer to himself, both arms wrapped around it, “this thing’s stupid. Where the hell did you get it?”

“Ordered it,” eyes closed, mouth pursed in a half frown, and yeah, he definitely looked like he needed a few bottles, just not one mammoth sized one designed to serve a frat house during rush week. “I didn’t realize it was quite that enormous, I just saw gallon, and vodka, and delivery.”

“ _Two_ gallons, Eugene,” failing to not laugh at the notion, heaving the thing into the deep sink in the kitchen. “It’s two gallons, and a two man pour-job. Who the hell designed this thing, and why?”

“I’m pleased my drinking choices amuse you, dearest, but I do require lubricating libations, and you’ve just torn the ones I had away from me, which was very nasty and unkind of you, especially seeing as you’re well aware that I’ve already drank all the other bottles we’d had available in the last few days,” grousing. “I need to get drunk immediately, Vincent, I’m feeling unpleasant things that I don’t want to, and they shouldn’t be doing that, so I simply must drown them before they cause me further trouble, it’s the only way to deal with the pests, you know.”

Hands on his waist, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up over his elbows, his tailored jacket worn out to dinner with Heather hung up by the door, “Is that how that’s supposed to work? Doesn’t seem like it’s done such a bangup job in the past for you.”

“If at first, you don’t succeed, try, try, try again!” arm raising into the air, hand rotating slowly on wrist, matching with each ‘try’. “Should work eventually.”

Stretching, hands locking and pressing, so knuckles cracked, “If it doesn’t? Or if it kills off the wrong feelings?”

“Like what? What pesky feelings must I keep?” Eugene sat up, disagreeable. 

“Uh, well, maybe anything nice you might find sulking around in some place in your head, I dunno,” scratching the back of his head, still assessing just how the hell he was going to get vodka from that bottle into a glass, without vodka also going everywhere else. 

“Oh, _those_ ,” moaning, and falling back over. “I already tried to drown them, they’re like you, not going anywhere, no matter what I do.”

“Yeah?” deciding that the spill was going to be inevitable and large, he should just do what he could, cross his fingers, and be ready to mop up after. “What’cha think they are?”

“Oh god, no, not this, Vincent,” whimpering, hands covering his face. “Surely it’s obvious to both of us what they are.”

“I’d say you love me, some days at least,” Vincent agreed, offering, setting to work. “Other days, pretty sure you wanna strangle me with my tie, and shove me out a window to see if I’ll bounce when I land on the concrete below. Kinda difficult here, it’s only three feet from the lip of the window to the grass.”

Sharp, offended, and displeased, “Beg your pardon?! You’re the math genius, and your calculations are that far off? You’d best rethink that, and say that I love you every day, defenestration is reserved for taxmen and all the other Morrows who don’t wear the name of either Jerome or Eugene.”

“Good,” vodka splurged and glugged, still managed to fill an empty wine or juice carafe he’d found. “I like that lots better. So long as those are the kinds of feelings that you can’t off with rotted potato peels, then I’m alright with that.”

A sturdy filled glass in one hand, filled to the brim carafe in the other, Vincent wormed his way to partially prop Eugene up, without using his hands at all, or spilling a drop. One green eye slit open enough to see that something other than warm male body had been delivered, and shaky gold fingers reached out, curling and snagging the glass in a hold shape that sometimes Vincent wondered if had become the resting position for that hand after so long being accustomed to clutching thick walled glass, and liquid making it heavier, since not once, even after falling asleep, had Eugene ever accidentally dropped or spilled a drink if it was in hand. 

“Bless you,” noisy slurp, and Vincent wished that Eugene had some way of easing strong upset or pain in some other fashion rather than dousing his organs with enough alcohol to pickle a few bodies for mortuary studies. Glass drained dry, held up again, and Vincent obliged, not sighing, it wouldn’t do any good, and sometimes that’s just how things were going to be, and this week was one of those times when Vincent didn’t even see a possible reason why he wouldn’t be doing the same if he’d gone through that. Halfway through the second glass, lips working around the rim of glass, “So what did dear, sweet Mummy send you on that platter the other day before we left?”

“A number I think,” it wasn’t important. “Was figuring I’d ask about it later, once you were less likely to wanna smash a few bottles over any available head, particularly mine.”

“Well of course, that’s perfectly reasonable, darling, especially since I’m an emotional trainwreck at the moment, for some stupid reason that makes no sense to me,” grumbling around another slurp, a sigh working free. “This is _not_ how it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be an hour or three of painfully idle appearing chit-chat, where you could learn to read the way those-those mole people work. You really were a dear there, though, right from the start, there’s not many people who’d stare Rowena Morrow down without it being an open challenge they would be all but assured of losing, bravo.”

“When we were headin’ her way, and I was gettin’ a good look at her, I kept thinkin’ I should take out my utility knife and rap the center of her forehead with the butt of it, see if she’d shatter like cheap glass, or somethin’ like that, she don’t look human at all, she looks like an alien pod person,” grunting. “Not a scrap of human in there, and I can see some lines, some shapes she gave you, but you’re beautiful, she’s just...some kind of weirdly malformed praying mantis.” Shuddering, “Alien, she’s alien, and beautiful, yeah, but terrifying and in no way human at all. Can barely believe you could share anythin’ with her, you’re...you’re real, and not some...human flesh suit stretched over a bug frame.”

Mildly, “Good god, man, you sound like you’ve had a chat or two with Father. Though the things he’d say don’t bear repeating. And of course, he’s never been strong with eloquence, either, while you are.” Just how Eugene could stomach pounding back six or seven ounces of pure, unadulterated hard liquor in a few gulps, straight, was one of those mysteries that would never be solved. But Eugene did it not once, but twice, in less than ten minutes, and was holding his glass out for a third refill. “Darling Vincent,” Eugene reached up enough to cup his cheek and jaw in a tired caress, “sweet accidental love of mine, that carafe you found’s going to need a refill soonish. Please humour me yet again, as you do far too often, and fetch that note when you manhandle my impulse purchase of vodka.”

Vincent’s head lolled to the side, tucking his jaw against Eugene’s temple, “You don’t gotta butter me up, y’know. Last couple days’ve been the fucking ugly as hell variety, and let loose all on you, I’d be drinking like a fish if it were me, too.” Heat still suffused his cheeks, unseen by green eyes, maybe guessed at though, with lingering fingers stroking back and forth over his cheekbone. “So, don’t go thinkin’ I need buttering up to get me to do what’cha want tonight, or hope that I won’t nag you ‘bout how fast, how much you’re drinkin’... Free pass for the moment barrin’ alcohol poisoning.”

Eugene’s lids opened wide enough to see him clearly, and replied sounding completely sober, just tired, “You truly are a marvel sometimes, darling, especially with all the small things you do. If you weren’t so likeable, I’d be ethically required to either turn you into someone as nasty as me, or hate you, probably both, I’m an overachiever, let’s not forget.” Shifting his weight away, freeing Vincent, “More rotted potato peels if you please, and that number -” catching Vincent’s hand, “as well as the phone.”

“I’m with you on the first two,” leaving Eugene on the couch while he fulfilled the trio of requests, “but -” hefting the cordless unit that was on the kitchen counter, “I don’t think drunk dialing your mom’s the best thing to do.”

Folded arm hooked over the back of the softa, Eugene had another drink, “Nonsense, I won’t be drunk dialing anyone, you’ll be sober dialing her - or mostly sober, you really should have at least one drink in you for dealing with Mother. Do your worst and find out what the fuck she’s really angling for. Bitch wanted something, I can smell it a mile away, and if I hadn’t gone ape and ruined that opportunity to find out what it was, then I want to know now.” Adamantly clunking the once more emptied glass on the sofa’s back, “I want to know what it is, and what thumbscrews they’ll think they can employ to bother me, and maybe if I’m feeling magnanimously contrary, I’ll do whatever it is - _if_ whatever she’s offering for it is interesting...”

Rolling the handset into the air a few times, catching it with soft slaps against his palm, Vincent shook his head. Whatever opportunity, though more likely, unwanted, tedious task - like going to visit the family estate or something - wasn’t worth anything to him. Besides, the option was probably gone with Eugene’s actions directed at his mother. Regardless, Vincent also grabbed the note with the number, as well as the juggling awkwardness of the big bottle of vodka to refill the carafe, to return and settle back in the spot he’d vacated, with Eugene promptly falling back into his own spot, glass held out for the next refill...which Vincent hoped would be consumed slower than the first ones. Letting Eugene get a look at the number dotted bit of paper, he awaited confirmation that yes, that was an actual number. No matter how long the string of numbers spanned in the world, there were still patterns, and Vincent didn’t know the British variety, so figured a second opinion was worthwhile. 

Hand gesturing impatiently, “Well then? That’s a number, that’s the number Mummy dear sent your way specifically, and you’ve the cordless, call already!”

“Man, you’re just ornery and wantin’ to give me a hard time, aren’t you,” jostling Eugene. Making a face at the note, thumb dialing it, “I don’t see what the point is. She’s a soulless, bitter, nasty woman that doesn’t really have anything we want, _I_ want, right now, you keep goin’ she’s got nuthin’, then she’s got somethin’, then -” the line clicked and Vincent immediately ceased his muttering, switching to polite ‘phone’ voice, “I received this number earlier -”

“Hello Vincent,” Rowena spoke over him, disregarding the banal introduction. “I was hoping you would call.”

Rubbing his upper lip, Vincent’s brow beetled, and flicked a glance towards Eugene whose eyes were closed, an intent, listening expression on his face, but nothing there to hint at what he thought Vincent should do. Alright, so he was on his own, which was fine. “Emily Post advises a man wait several days before calling a woman after she’s given him her number, but, that’s if he wants to ask her out, and I don’t think we’ve reached that level of familiarity,” aiming for cool humour. Better than sarcasm, since Eugene wanted to find out what Rowena Morrow wanted of him, and so Vincent opted to try a bit of honey to catch some flies. Hadn’t Eugene told him that flirting with old ladies was pretty much always a good way to get what you wanted out of them? 

“Clearly you’ve acquired some of Jerome’s habits,” she didn’t _sigh_ or sound disapproving, but there was a pause, a hint of exasperation. “The more observant and savvy of his peers did the same, finding that they could gain a great deal of praise and attention from older women with such outrageous and daring games.” Another pause, and the sound of a cigarette being lit came, delicate puffing draw, tone cool. “It was only amusing until Jerome was twelve and he ceased being boyishly earnest, when he actually still believed somewhat in what he was saying, but it of course changed into nothing but empty mummery. His peers never did master his almost believable delivery. Practice some more, Vincent, and you’ll be suave enough to play that game better than other young men.”

“Think I’ve heard the saying that practice makes perfect a time or two, Lady Morrow,” agreeing, even though Vincent had _zero_ desire to become a suave cad, brown nosing everyone. Not that Eugene was those things, even if he once had been, obviously, it was a mask, a charade, weapon and armour donned to battle his way through the day to day rigors of what had been expected of him. “Thanks for the reminder.” Making a face, Vincent didn’t want to do this delicate dancing thing, or to hear Rowena Morrow’s measured perfection and impeccable chill longer than he must. Clearing his throat lightly, shifting on the couch, Eugene doing the same, eyes still closed, brow still furrowed into deep ruts as he took long, silent sips from the tumbler and listening. Since Eugene hadn’t elbowed him or made some gesture or other to give silent direction, Vincent steeled himself for a more decisive move in the conversation. “Suppose the meeting should’ve had some trial runs before actually happening in person, since yourself and Jerome are out of practice interacting with one another, and I’ve had no experience in playing referee, so wasn’t much help there.”

Against him, Eugene shook slightly, lips curving in a tight smile, no sound issuing, head rocking side to side, disbelieving.

“The scene was kept to a minimum,” the sigh heaved was soft, artful, and disapproving, “in spite of his theatrics, you handled it well enough for an interloper in such private, family affairs. I suppose it’s the best that could be expected, considering how things have been since the accident, some allowances should be made for an outsider capable of reducing the level of ludicrous misbehaviour down a step to histrionics.”

“Which is why you sent the number to me instead of Jerome, since you expected him to react even worse, at best, he wouldn’t waste more time than it took to see who sent the note, I guess. You’ve probably already decided what sort of reaction his ‘at worst’ would be, and if you were less self-possessed, you’d be having a fit,” Vincent replied evenly, teeth gnashing, wanting to yell at her suddenly over labelling what Eugene had expressed, had been keeping pent up deep inside, until it had finally won free, as something chalked up to ‘hysteria’, dismissing Eugene’s feelings, experiences, completely. “Fine, since you figure I’m the restrained one, outsider or not, you believe speaking to me will do what precisely, Lady Morrow? Curiosity and my friendship with him got me on the line, being levelheaded gets some attempt at friendly sounding discourse - but I’m waiting to hear why I should expend any more effort on my end. Maybe you could even tell me why there’s any reason you would even expect me to do more, you’re little more than a name to me.”

A sharply indrawn breath, startled, tightly repressed, and Vincent damn well knew he’d offended her, shocked her. He would’ve done more, but was still trying to keep a bit of ‘sweet’ in the dialogue, for the sake of Eugene’s curiosity, if for no other reason. “You wouldn’t know anything of the responsibilities he’s supposed to see to, so it shouldn’t be expected that you’d accept and understand that as a proper reason. His being my son isn’t good enough, either, for your civil words don’t do much to hide your disdain. You leave me little choice in what reasons you’ll take as sufficiently valuable to garner your continued attention.”

Eugene sat up, scowling at the phone, and Vincent raised a brow, wishing they could talk. Then again, who would believe the whole ‘love of a mother’ bit after the way Eugene’s family had behaved the last few years? Neither of them were buying it. The responsibilities thing...okay, that may be real in that she, and maybe some others, believed that disabled or not, Eugene owed the Morrows something or other. Another generation at least. Which was dumb, they could just do it themselves, get a surrogate, no need to force Eugene whom they didn’t want, and who didn’t want them either, to return and all that.

“You’re right, I don’t, nothing I’ve seen says I have any reason to believe those reasons,” Vincent agreed quietly. “Kinda late to play the maternal card for full effect. As for the family obligations one, alright, I’ll bite, I’ll agree that from your standpoint, you believe that he’s got a role to fulfill, at the very least to make a few new baby Morrows. But that still isn’t good enough, since all you need are some Morrow eggs and Morrow sperm, and a woman willing to rent her uterus out to take care of that problem. Maybe you could try the family holdings and business responsibilities tack, where he would be expected to take on managing and overseeing those things at some point, or hey, maybe some kind of business and family alliance sealed with a marriage. He might be useful for that.” Squeezing the phone, Vincent stood up, pacing, “I’ll agree that those reasons sound somewhat plausible...other than the fact that the actions taken to date, and what your select social strata value in their circles disqualify him if some other substitution could be come up with. And yours is a resourceful type, it may take a little effort, but whatever you come up with to hold things together long enough for the next little Morrows to be ready to carry the family and its name onwards, would probably be a lot more palatable to you, and your peers.”

“You,” voice cracking briefly, then she swallowed, “you are a most brutal as well as intelligent man, Vincent, as you’d no doubt have to be to last long beside Jerome. You voice solutions to problems that do not belong to you, and that you don’t truly understand. But you are right, those would be possible, they have even been considered, and in the end, they may be what is decided upon.” Long, deep drag off of her cigarette on the other side of the line, “As I said, to you, my reasons for wanting this call, to establish contact, wouldn’t be of merit to you.”

“You still want something though, Lady Morrow,” Vincent sat back down, reaching for Eugene’s glass of vodka, taking a deep sip himself. He sorta felt like shit, couldn’t put his finger on why. “You still want something from him, and you want me to sell him the idea. What is it and why should I try to? Why should I take on the job of getting him to do whatever it is you want in particular, when it could damage our friendship? Make him question my loyalty to him, by dealing behind his back with people he has come to expect nothing but casual cruelty and rejection from.” Damn the no smoking in the house rule, and he snagged Eugene’s pack, took two out, lit them, and passed one to Eugene. If Vincent needed one, Eugene did too, that was for damn sure. “Should hang up now, shouldn’t be wasting my time and giving you more of it to come up with something, Lady Morrow, would love nothing more than to do so. But I’m not brutal as you say, that’s more your folks’ venue than mine, so here I am, all ears, while you try to guess just how to phrase things so that you can use me to get your way.”

“Crudely put, blunt, but effective,” Rowena’s tone was pure ice. “I need him to visit the family Glamorgen home, he will understand once he sees what’s there. You will as well, unfortunately, but that is the price to pay. There’s nothing more I can divulge, beyond that if you both come and visit, see what is there to be seen, and then if you both choose to leave, I’ll make no attempt to change his mind. His stipend will be reinstated, the will rewritten to grant him whatever specifics he chooses, and he can go about whatever he wishes without being bothered again, if that is his decision. Nothing else will ever be asked of him after that.” 

“A house call,” Vincent stated, trying not to laugh in shock. That’s what Vincent had half suspected, while Eugene had thrown in family reunion parties at the estate, in the end, it was prophetic enough to be funny. “A family visit in trade for money, bought and sold like store goods, and a promise that he won’t be bothered again. That’s what you want and what you’re offering? Look, I’m trying not to laugh here, but it’s kinda hard, since nobody had been bothering him before, wanted or needed him since the Olympics, asking him to come to an isolated place -” incredulous, he shook his head, dismissive, “nevermind, fine, I’ll see if the gene for dangerously dumb curiosity wasn’t screened from his sequence. How many people are you going to expect him to tolerate being subjected to sharing the same space with? And what are your thoughts on offensive guests getting their asses handed to them if they overstep?”

“It’s private,” Eugene’s mother said. “Immediate family and the estate’s staff only, Vincent. We no longer host large social gatherings, and few of the family live in the Glamorgen area. I expect that whatever the answer is, that you’ll inform me.”

The line went dead with a click. 

“That sucked,” Vincent groaned, tossing the handset onto the ottoman, throwing his arms back over the sofa as he let himself heavily fall backwards into its support. “Didn’t go well. Blew it, I guess, right?”

Eugene poured a refill, shaking his head, puzzling it all over by the looks of it, “You’ve stated numerous times, Vincent, that you can’t be left alone in a room with any of my immediate family, or you’d wring their necks. Not that I believe you’d actually do it, I think you’re more likely to haul off and kick them around physically and verbally until you were worn out or someone intervened. Both undesirable. Considering that, though - you’ve been nothing but restrained in dealing with Mother. More than commendable, and until the meeting, I would have thought that I was the one who kept cool, not the other way around, contrary to how things are frequently elsewhere... At least when it came to dealing with my family.”

“Yeah-yeah, still,” reaching out, touching his shoulder, squeezing bicep, “botched job or not, did you get what _you_ wanted outta that call? Curiosity satisfied?”

Thoughtfully, “I’m...not certain, darling. In the end, I’m afraid I’m likely to say ‘fuck it’ and go there, see whatever the hell it is they want me to see, maybe it’s something frivolous, maybe not. What seems the most peculiar, is that she wants us to go to Glamorgan instead of the estate in Surrey. It’s much closer, and I spent more time there, than Glamorgan. Just, it seems a bit odd, and I just know that’s going to plague me until I find out why.” 

XXX

Vincent found himself both wanting to find out what the Morrows wanted, and alternately, make a rude gesture and leave the country. Eugene joked about firebombing, about buying military surplus explosives, and lobbing it in the estate’s direction. As they’d discussed it in front of Heather, she added her own two cents, which involved a catapult and some cows. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and that was why they - yeah, all three of them, as Heather was adamant about carrying out her job to the letter and intent - left London, in a touring car that was a lot nicer looking than the one German had used to drive he and Eugene to the airport back in America. And when they pulled up to the estate after the better part of a day was spent driving, Vincent let out a soft whistle, glad that the car Lola had provided for them, was quality as it was - impressions were important to the elites after all. 

“I haven’t been here since I was ten,” Eugene peered up and out the window, face screwed up, taking it in. “I don’t recall it looking so...” leaving the statement hanging, grimacing. 

‘Dilapidated’ wasn’t the term Vincent would use, but there was a vacant, desolate air about the place, like nobody had lived there in a long time. The grounds that could be seen were all in perfect state, the paved drive pristine, not a single thing was out of place that Vincent, a first time visitor, could see. Yet the air of vacancy, of hollowness, was palpable, intensifying as he followed Eugene’s directions to a side garage hidden away from the front portion of the estate. There were cars covered in tarps to keep off dust and other unwanted accumulation inside the space that may have once been a big stone barn, creating humped up shapes around them. Only three vehicles were bared to the air of the garage’s interior, one of which was a sleek burgundy Jag coupe from late last century, and Vincent didn’t need Eugene to tell him that the classic antique car belonged to Rowena Morrow. The other two vehicles were much less ostentatious, a battered pickup truck that might be used by the groundskeeper, and a more recent model Volvo sedan. 

“Horror movies start out like this,” Heather looked around, head craning this way and that once they got out of the car, and began to unload. “No Jeeves to pop up to help cart luggage, we’re out here, doing it ourselves, planning to just wander on into the House on Haunted Hill. Makes me wish I had more guns, lads, my security blanket’s a Desert Eagle, but she’s not exactly inconspicuous.”

Eugene shook his head, and Vincent looked away rather than watch the Englishman hold an ampule of Nexicram in hand, debating, Vincent didn’t want to know what choice would be selected. Fourteen to sixteen hour window, and then another dose would be needed, otherwise the crash would come, if he took it. And Vincent had a feeling that Eugene decided he daren’t be truly his real self for the moment, because he got into the wheelchair, the drug either administered or not, Vincent didn’t want to know, only prepared himself mentally for both options. 

Hoisting the pair of heavy suitcases that held what Eugene had deemed sufficient to cover any stay at the Morrow home, Vincent scowled, “Let’s hope they’re just being assholes, and not sharpening knives or somethin’. ‘Cuz I’m no good with guns, but if you’ve got a spare, and we see anyone looking to butcher up longpig, I’d be wanting one, too.”

“Not to worry, dears, I’ve it on good authority that cannibalism and torture are so last season,” Eugene snorted, turning his wheelchair tightly in place, and began to lead the way. “There should be a servants’ entrance that is wheelchair accessible as I recall. Gets us near the first floor solar, and the great hall should be beside that, it’s been some time though... I think the library is on the opposite wing? Blast, not that it matters.”

The entrance was easily found, and easy for Eugene’s wheelchair to navigate, and signs of habitation finally cropped up. The floors were covered in rugs and runners, and clean, which was a good sign. So was the lit hall lights overhead, and some on the walls, but they didn’t see anyone. It was disconcerting and eerie, at least to Vincent, making the short hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stand on end. He wasn’t the superstitious or nervous type, but the place sure made him feel like jumping at shadows. 

Eugene motioned with a jerk of chin towards a set of double doors, one of which was open, light spilling from the other room, “Grandmother’s solar, shall we have a looksee?”

Rowena Morrow was stepping forward to fill the doorway just as Eugene finished speaking, her hands clasped together casually, the heavy weight of her inspection landing as it had last time, “Ringing with a timeframe of arrival would have been polite, Jerome.” She spoke to her son, but she was looking at Vincent, except he refused to be cowed by the insinuation that she’d expected him to cover for any of her son’s ‘impolite’ behaviour. “And do set those things down, someone will be by to carry them to your rooms. Waddling around like labourers when you are guests is unacceptable, and I’ll not stand for it.”

Following her into the room with its wall filled with windows, pouring light, the contents of the room were few, giving the impression of an enormous empty room with patterned marble floors and the long wall opposite of the window side was all that held anything interesting, and was filled with tall bookshelves, and above those, were pictures in sleek frames depicting generations of Morrows to look down upon anyone in the solar. Vincent had no idea what a lady’s solar was supposed to be, supposed to hold, but not quite this, not quite the oversized almost dinning table sized table with writing supplies and a phone atop it, a pair of narrow sofas, a single straight backed chair tucked under the table, and placed caddy-corner between the wall of windows and the adjoining wall was a piano. Taking it in, he realized why it felt empty yet familiar - other than the scale, it wasn’t too different in a way from the lower half of the condo. It echoed and felt like a vast space, one waiting to be filled and likely to never find full satisfaction, at least not for long.

Dryly, Eugene rolled behind his mother, Vincent at his shoulder, “If you actually sat as often as you threatened to, Mother, you’d need this wheelchair more than me.”

Heather’s chuckle was low and throaty at the dig, and Vincent cast her a warning look, shaking his head, noting how Rowena’s back straightened in a flinch at Eugene’s words, though gave no other reaction to the jibe. 

Rowena made for the table and sat, each twist of her body that tightly controlled ballet of insect perfection, body and chair shifting to face them, an arm resting atop the grandiose ornate antique. A flick of a glance at him then Heather, “You may stay Vincent, as I’ve no doubt if I were to request you to step outside the room, Jerome’s dissent would be theatrical.” Eugene made a soft sound of agreement, while Lady Morrow’s gaze moved to Heather, mapping her head to toe, no emotion in the expression, “The strongarm may make herself comfortable in the hall, with the door closed, as this is a private, family matter.”

“They both stay, it’s rude to ask anyone to stand outside a door, like some sort of armed guard, feudalism became defunct years ago, and the need for armed soldiers keeping watch on a noble’s doors fell out of favour not long after.” Eugene leaned back in his wheelchair, relaxing. Head tilting back, smile broadening at them, “You needn’t hover though, there’s probably a few copies of really disgusting uncensored erotica on those shelves, Heather, see if you can find something particularly salacious. We could do a reading, pretend we’re at one of those coffee houses that do that. It’ll horrify Mother.”

Sharing a look with Heather, Vincent shrugged, the motion mirrored and the girl slipped off, making a show of starting far down the wall’s shelves near the door, very well out of hearing range of normal conversation.

Shifting, stuffing hands in his pockets, Vincent glanced around hoping to see something he could claim as a place to sit himself that was close. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jerome, ‘least, not one of your better ones. Sounds like you’re just trying to be shocking.” 

“Bollocks, you take all the fun out of things sometimes, Vincent,” sighing, hands smoothing over waistcoat, a disdainful sniff. “Fine, let’s just get this over with then.” Rocking forward, elbows on armrests, “What’s so important that it warrants this visit, Mother?”

The red lipstick she was wearing today was a deeper shade than the last, and painted her mouth bloody, like dried and tarry thick blood, a carnivore’s mouth mid-meal, and those lips flattened. “Lady Rowena died in a sailing incident just over a year ago,” the words delivered without preamble, unfeeling, without remorse, without weight, as though they didn’t sound insane. 

“Wha-t?” Vincent blurted, then huffing laughs came out, “That’s a joke, right?”

Eugene’s hand came out, reaching for him, touching his wrist lightly, whole body remaining arched forward in Rowena’s direction, “Not a very funny one. Bit far-fetched if you ask me.”

Chin lifting up, “No, it’s not very funny at all. Inconvenient and unpleasant aren’t satisfactory descriptions of it either.” Rowena picked a small case up from the table, stood, and held out the tablet, a syringe produced from a pocket in her skirt. Watching them, the statuesque woman drew blood from the vein on the side of her wrist, and then allowed droplets fill the reservoir on the tablet computer. “See for yourself, Jerome,” holding the tablet out. 

Vincent stepped closer, taking the computer himself, glancing at it, and the picture of the woman on the screen had some resemblance to the Rowena standing right there, but wasn’t her, not at all, and he quickly handed the device to Eugene. “You’re a degener, how’d you swing that in this kind of family?”

“Nana?” Eugene looked at the screen, then Rowena, breathing the question out, uncertain, disbelieving. “But - but you died when I was - when I was twelve, away at school.” Angrily, “That’s what they said, that’s what they told me, and you’ve been here how long? How long did you use Mother’s profile and be an utter and complete cunt to me?! You-you -” sputtering, the years hurts piling up and really put into a different focus, since Eugene had told him that his nanny was the only person he’d loved as a kid, felt loved by, she’d been his only good.

She weathered it, “I was her double, Jerome, seeing to whatever functions she didn’t care to do herself. From taking care of you until you were twelve, to parties with people she disliked. Out in public, there was very little way to tell whether it was myself, or her, out there. But she did actively keep me away from functions where you would be, attending them herself, allowing only infrequent occasions where it was me wearing her face with you nearby. If I could have, if I’d dared, I would have remained closer to you, bobbin. But I couldn’t, and by the time there was opportunity, you were already so closed off that it was best not to upset you, to risk damaging the tenuous balancing acts required of everyone in this world.” Sitting back down, “After your return to the States once your physical therapy had done all it could, Rowena told me she’d had enough, and that I would be living her life here in her stead, far beyond some functions and all business or publicity dealings, while she would move to Portugal. She would only return if she felt that being Rowena Morrow wasn’t so shamefully embarrassing anymore...and then she had her own accident. My stocks of her samples are extremely limited and will not last much longer, but I’ve already long since been tired of living her life. Her death gave me the excuse to relocate here full time, to be with your father, and live quietly as I might, with much reduced scrutiny.”

“I don’t believe you,” Eugene rocked back, tossing the tablet one handed, giving it a spin so it landed on the table with a clatter, mouth twisting and pursed, waspish. “Oh-oh I believe you that the frigid bitch would use a double, a stand-in, so she could cherry pick what to do, and be free to find whatever amusements someone that deplorable may enjoy. Morrows have always been adept in using others to get their own way as long as there have been Morrows, no matter how recently we acquired social status, no more than a few generations ago.” Air popping on his lips, “ _But_ I don’t fucking believe it, believe you, about you caring. This whole thing is nonsense, why drag me into it?”

“Eugene, if she’s a degener, if your real mom’s dead, and there’s no new samples, she’s playin’ a dangerous game, if she gets caught out,” leaning down, voice even, low, hand on the tight shoulder. “She can’t keep running around doing the power woman act for the family businesses, not for much longer, right?”

“Not my problem,” teeth bared. “I’ve seen to my own security with the brewery and winery shares and real estates, the Hodge branch of the family handles things in Brittany, almost all Morrows here only host parties, kiss ass, and play power games. Let them rot, it’s nothing to do with me, and there’s nothing I can do about it, anyway, now is there, Vincent?”

“There is,” Rowena - well, not Rowena, but thinking about it, watching her, Vincent figured that this woman was more Rowena than the other one had been - countered. If she was bothered by, hurt by, what Eugene had said, nothing showed, and he guessed she’d come to the conclusion she had best stop reacting shocked or hurt by Eugene since the failed cafe meeting. “If you were to marry, your wife would be able to become the public face I’ve been in the boardroom and other scenes.”

“The fuck I will! Besides - _besides_ \- Father does plenty of his own schmoozing,” hissing, hand flicking dismissively. “I’m not going to hand over a child to be raised amongst you bastards. And I’m not marrying some Valid whore, so we can then play social power couple!”

“Jerome,” sighing, legs crossing at the knee. “You wouldn’t have to do anything more than marry the girl, and if matters were bad enough, your father can supply the sperm. She would be the one carrying the whole public persona, your father would help after his fashion, and I may be in the background, assisting where I won’t be required to be tested to prove my identity. No power couple, nothing but legal contract of marriage, giving the girl the Morrow name and business clout.” Softer, “I’d hoped that you would return and settle down, build a life here and find satisfaction in it. I was wrong to think you’d be able to find anything like that here.”

It sounded like a solution, a workable one. But nobody had come out and said why Eugene would _bother_. Affection for the memory of a nanny that he’d loved may have been some reason, except it was now countered and weighed against the years of lies, and how she had been right there the whole time, and party to his family’s treatment of him. Vincent had walked away from his own family, without a second glance, and they hadn’t done anything like the Morrows had done to Eugene. 

Lip skinning back to show off a canine, Eugene reached down to set the chair’s breaks, and stood up slowly, and only long familiarity revealed how much it cost, how badly it hurt Eugene to do so which indicated he hadn’t taken the Nexicram. The display was all so he could look down that long nose of his, “I can’t think of a single compelling reason why I’d want to return to this place, to do any of that, and you’ve precious little good faith to use to hold me with, there’s nothing here I want, nothing here I need, and you’ve not said a damn thing as to what I’ll get out of this one-sided bargain you’ve come up with. You people haven’t done me a single favour, a single good turn, in more years than bear counting, everything was with strings attached alongside predatory interest rates, expecting the designer child to perform on order, dance and sing for amusement and Morrow profit, prestige. Why the fuck should I see fit to piss on any of you if you were on fire? A bit of money? A promise of not ever asking for another thing from me?” Shaking his head, “Never again shall I sell myself so cheaply as I used to, I’ve no charity to spare you.”

Vincent watched Rowena, watched her carefully for any reaction to Eugene standing, to his turning on his heel to leave the solar, somehow not stumbling, but the stride wasn’t the long and easy measured one of having used the Nexicram. It was firm, graceful, and done without hesitation or faltering, other than a barely noticeable set of spasms in shoulders to denote overall body strain. Heather chased after Eugene, tagging along, she would have enough common sense to snag Eugene’s canes to help him, and Vincent went back to watching Rowena Morrow - was just easier to call her that in his head. He watched her gaze tracking Eugene’s movements, impassive, but there was enough focus that Vincent wondered if she was relieved, longing...what was it? 

Taking Eugene’s wheelchair for a place to sit, Vincent undid the brakes and rolled it forward, and leaned, hands clasped between his knees. “Could’ve gone worse, he could’ve started yelling.” Making a show of looking around, “Nothing to throw he could’ve grabbed up easily, so there’s that, too. Got that going for you, which is nice.”

Eyes refocusing on him with an almost audible snap, “He also didn’t lash out, though I hardly think withholding physical violence, destruction of property, and screaming verbal abuse are high on the list of difficult behaviours to resist. Children are taught about that from a very young age, Jerome is an adult, and he’d learned about being housebroken many years ago, there’s no reason he would’ve forgotten such basic life skills.” Fingers going to her throat, resting there, “Seeing him hurting is wretched. Seeing him _walk_ like that, to storm away...my bobbin, he’s become so big, so grownup, but I remember him being so little still.”

“Guess you got that going for you too then,” rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t hold your breath on him helping you guys out. And _don’t_ look to me like I’ll convince him to, because I won’t. You people are real pieces of work, I’d’ve cut ties the first time I landed elsewhere, far away, and never looked back.” Grimacing, “Hell, almost since hearing his first stories about his family, his friends, I told him that he shouldn’t leave me alone in a room with any of you... But I’m not the kind to kick someone when they’re down, I’ve got more control over myself than that. Way he’s feeling right now, I wouldn’t expect the same thing from him, though.”

Rowena stared into the distance, seeing some other time, “He would have likely been better off if he’d done as you would have, but my bobbin’s always been too forgiving, allowing others to hurt him. Once you leave, help him not look back, he deserves whatever peace he can find elsewhere.”


End file.
